TOWN 

SHEILA  KAYE-SMIffl 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


TAMARISK  TOWN 


TAMARISK   TOWN 


BY 

SHEILA  KAYE-SMITH 

AUTHOR  OF 

4     .     '"THE  CHALLENGE  TO  SIRIUS," 
"SUSSEX  GORSE,"  "THE  ISLE  OF  THORNS,"  ETC. 


"Show  me  the  totm  they  saw, 
Withouten  fleck  or  flaw, 
Aflame,  more  fine  than  glass  .  .  ." 

-  DIGBY  MACKWORTH  DOLBEN 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

68 1    FIFTH   AVENUE 


COPYRIGHT,  1920, 
BY  E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


\   rx 

(0O 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 
THE  BUILDER 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE       .               I 

II.  MORGAN  LE  FAY .       .       .       .  49 

III.  CLIMBING  STREETS 97 

IV.  THE  BETRAYAL 142 

PART  II 

THE  DESTROYER 

I.  GUARDIAN  AND  GUIDE 213 

II.  THE  BURNING  HEART 2$O 

III.  THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN 295 

IV.  RECONCILIATION 344 

EPILOGUE 

MONYPENNY   ON   THE   SHORE 385 


537850 


TAMARISK  TOWN 

CHAPTER  I 
MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE 

§i 

IN  the  hollow  of  the  hills  that,  to  the  North,  melted  into  the 
Sussex  Weald  and,  to  the  South,  broke  and  crumbled  into  the 
sea,  Marlingate  lay  with  the  green  of  the  tamarisks  hazing  its 
streets.  The  town  itself  was  a  tumble  of  blacks  and  reds,  a 
mass  of  broken  colours  flung  between  the  hills,  into  the  lit- 
tle scoop  between  the  woods  and  the  sea.  It  lay  there  like  a 
thing  flung  down,  heaped  and  broken,  rolling  to  the  very  edge 
of  the  waves,  and  held  from  falling  into  them  only  by  its  thick, 
battered  Town  Wall. 

A  mist  generally  hung  over  it,  the  webbing  and  clotting  of 
its  sea  breezes  as  their  spindrift  met  the  homely  things  of 
its  atmosphere — the  grey  hearth-smoke,  the  stewing  heat  of 
the  town's  crooked  ways,  the  dew  that  refreshed  the  tamarisks 
at  night.  There  was  nearly  always  this  fog  of  smoke  and  spray 
over  Marlingate,  melting  its  reds  through  purple  into  the  deep, 
dancing  blue  of  the  sea;  only  now  and  then  the  colours  came 
out  clearly,  blocks  of  black  and  red,  with  slashes  and  slices  of 
white,  and  the  old  grey  mouldings  of  church  and  Town  Hall 
with  their  battlemented  shadows.  Then  the  weather-wise 
spoke  of  rain,  and  those  wise  in  other  ways  than  the  weath- 
er's, saw  in  the  town  a  queer,  changeling  beauty,  as  if  it  lay 
between  the  hills  a  fairy's  town.  A  wind  would  rise  and  shake 


2  TAMARISK  TOWN 

in  the  woods,  and  blow  down  Fish  Street  and  High  Street  to 
the  sea;  and  the  sighing  waves  would  answer  the  sighing 
trees,  and  roar  and  cry  to  each  other  over  the  little  red  town 
that  divided  them,  deep  calling  to  deep,  eternity  calling  to 
eternity  across  time. 

To  Monypenny,  watching  at  his  window  in  Gun  Garden 
House,  it  seemed  almost  as  if  the  woods  and  the  sea  would 
soon  fly  together  in  some  strange  embrace,  crushing  the 
town  between  them,  swallowing  up  all  his  dreams  for  Mar- 
lingate  in  that  one  great  dream  wherein  he  and  Marlingate 
swam  together  like  bubbles,  pledged  to  a  divine  destruction. 
He  would  rise  up  and  square  his  shoulders,  and  feel  himself 
upholding  the  town  with  his  manhood,  the  alert,  informing, 
vitalising  brain  of  it  all — saying  to  the  woods  and  the  sea: 
"Thus  far  you  shall  come,  and  no  further."  So  Marlingate 
stayed  a  tumble  and  trickle  of  red  and  black  on  the  edge  of 
the  sea,  with  the  woods  pressing  sullen  and  flat  against  it, 
a  little  bit  of  time  poised  between  two  huge,  threatening 
eternities. 

§2 

Mr.  Hugo  Becket  sat  in  his  office  in  Ludgate  Street,  wait- 
ing for  a  visitor.  The  office  smelt  of  dust  and  leather,  and 
stored  papers  almost  flavorous.  A  small  fire  burned  in  the 
grate,  chewing  smokily  a  single  lump  of  coal.  Mr.  Becket 
walked  over  to  it  and  lifted  his  coat  tails,  giving  an  uneasy 
glance  at  the  window,  as  if  in  reluctant  reproach  of  it,  because 
it  did  not  frame  the  figure  of  Mr.  Edward  Monypenny  pant- 
ing to  his  appointment,  now  passed  by  thirteen  minutes  ex- 
actly. 

Then  it  struck  Mr.  Becket  that  perhaps  Monypenny  did 
not  mean  to  come  at  all.  He  had  changed  his  mind,  and 
being  Monypenny,  thought  the  matter  concerned  himself  only, 
and  had  not  troubled  about  the  busy  merchant  who  had  cleared 
a  space  for  him  in  his  cumbered  day.  Perhaps  he  should  have 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE          3 

made  a  social  matter  of  it,  asked  him  to  dinner;  but  the  idea 
of  binding  Monypenny  with  a  dinner  seemed  ridiculous  even 
to  Becket.  He  lifted  his  coat-tails  still  higher.  Damn  Mony- 
penny! He  had  been  a  fool  to  get  involved  with  him  and  his 
concerns  at  once  mad  and  trumpery.  No  good  would  come  of 
it,  one  might  be  sure.  Perhaps  it  was  just  as  well  that  Mony- 
penny had  missed  his  appointment. 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  bell  of  the  outer  office,  and  the 
next  minute  one  of  the  clerks  thrust  his  head  into  Becket's 
room. 

"Mr.  Monypenny  has  called,  sir." 

"Show  him  in." 

Every  time  he  met  him,  Monypenny  shocked  Becket — 
shocked  him  with  his  youth.  Somehow  in  the  intervals  the 
merchant  could  never  think  of  him  except  as  an  elder,  or  at 
youngest  a  contemporary.  So  it  was  always  a  shock  to  meet 
the  tall,  solemn  stripling  of  twenty-eight,  who  now  stood  be- 
fore him  with  outstretched  hand.  His  youth  was  incon- 
gruous, too;  it  shocked  one's  eyes  as  well  as  one's  ideas,  for 
his  hair  was  quite  white,  and  gave  a  sinister  look  to  his  face, 
which  otherwise  had  nothing  very  remarkable  about  it  save 
the  unusual  length  of  the  chin.  He  was  clean-shaven,  ex- 
cept for  the  side- whiskers  which  1857  demanded,  and  these, 
together  with  his  eyes  and  eyebrows,  were  black. 

It  was  typical  of  Monypenny  that  he  made  no  reference 
to  his  lateness.  He  sat  down  without  waiting  for  an  invi- 
tation. 

"Well,  have  you  been  thinking  over  what  we  talked  about 
last  night?" 

Becket  would  have  thought  it  more  decent  if  he  had  begun 
with  a  few  remarks  about  the  weather,  but  Monypenny  was 
always  ruthlessly  economical  of  intercourse. 

"I've  given  the  matter  some  consideration.  It  is  certainly 
promising,  but  of  course  you  realise  the  whole  thing  is  a  gam- 
ble more  or  less." 


4  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"I  don't  see  that.  You're  safe,  anyhow.  The  mortgage 
will  guarantee  your  expenditure  up  to  the  last  shilling.  As  for 
the  rest  of  us,  we're  pretty  confident.  Marlingate  has  been 
growing  in  popularity  for  years — we're  meeting  a  demand,  not 
creating  it." 

"But  don't  you  think  you're  meeting  that  demand  quite 
sufficiently  as  things  are?  Don't  you  think  that  the  people 
who  come  to  Marlingate  come  chiefly  for  the  bathing  and 
the  quiet  and  the  climate?  If  you  turn  the  place  into  a  typical 
seaside  resort  you'll  drive  your  best  patrons  away." 

Monypenny  smiled — he  had  an  odd  unyouthful  smile,  which 
people  often  seemed  to  find  disconcerting,  perhaps  on  account 
of  an  indefinite  irony  that  lurked  in  it. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid  of  that,"  he  said,  "I  don't  suppose 
more  than  six  per  cent  of  average  human  beings  want  quiet  at 
the  seaside.  Of  course  I'm  not  going  to  turn  the  place  into  a 
deadly  racketing  copy  of  London.  I'm  absolutely  against  any- 
thing of  the  sort.  It's  the  death  of  seaside  towns — London- 
ising  them.  I'll  merely  build  a  Parade,  an  Assembly  Room, 
and  some  good  houses  on  my  land.  I  want  to  attract  resi- 
dents of  high  social  standing." 

"Who's  the  Mayor?"  Becket  was  a  little  disconcerted  by 
Monypenny's  use  of  the  first  person  singular. 

"Hewitson  Pelham.  A  good  fellow — keeps  the  peace,  and 
doesn't  meddle.  I've  planned  a  Town  Committee,  to  deal  ex- 
clusively with  this  development  idea.  There's  a  strong  Pro- 
gressive party  in  the  Town  Council  and  among  the  local 
tradesmen.  Of  course  there's  opposition,  but  it's  not  serious. 
I've  absolutely  no  doubt  that  we'll  pull  the  thing  through. 
The  times  are  ripe  for  it — the  town's  prosperous,  and  so  is  the 
country  at  large.  All  we  want  is  enterprise — and  a  certain 
amount  of  financial  backing." 

"Urn,"  said  Becket. 

"Of  course  I  shouldn't  start  my  own  building  till  I  see  how 
the  thing  in  general  gets  on.  We'll  probably  begin  with  im- 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE          5 

proving  the  sea-front — out  of  the  Borough  Fund,  with  perhaps 
a  loan.  Then  there'll  have  to  be  an  Assembly  Room,  and  of 
course  a  proper  water-supply — at  present  all  the  water  comes 
from  the  Gut's  Mouth  Brook.  Then,  after  a  year  or  so,  when 
I  see  how  the  place  is  doing,  I'll  build  a  row  or  two  of  gen- 
teel houses  on  my  land,  and  I  had  thought  of  laying  out  part 
of  it  as  public  gardens." 

"It's  a  good  scheme — how  large  is  your  estate?" 

"A  thousand  acres,  just  outside  the  town.  It's  mostly 
woodland  at  present,  but  it's  good  for  building — clay,  with  a 
gravel  subsoil.  I  might  start  a  brickyard." 

"And  you  would  like  me  to — er — support  the  undertaking?" 

"Exactly.  But  it's  not  merely  my  own  building  I'm  think- 
ing about,  though  that's  where  your  security  comes  in.  I 
want  to  find  somebody  who'll  take  an  interest  in  the  town, 
and  help  make  it  known,  and  bring  in  genteel  visitors." 

Becket  was  flattered. 

"Well,  of  course  I  might  be  of  use  in  that  way.  My  dear 
wife's  people  .  .  .  She  was  a  Hurdicott  of  Graveley,  you 
know,"  and  the  widower  sighed.  "I'm  related  to  the  Duke  of 
Lincoln  by  marriage,"  he  added  more  brightly. 

"Quite  so,"  said  Monypenny,  "that's  the  sort  of  visitor  I 
want  to  get." 

"The  Duke!" 

"Why  not?  Once  get  a  Duke  to  come  to  the  place  and 
everybody  else  will  follow.  We'll  build  him  a  fine  hotel  one  of 
these  days,  and  he  can  have  his  balls  and  his  hunting  and  the 
best  climate  in  England.  I'll  build  the  town  up  round  him." 

Becket  was  now  a  little  fired  as  well  as  flattered. 

"As  I've  told  you  before,  the  idea  appeals  to  me,  but  as  a 
man  of  business  I  see  it's  nothing  but  a  gamble." 

Monypenny  smiled  faintly,  and  Becket  fidgeted. 

"What  I  was  going  to  suggest,"  said  the  former,  "is  that  you 
should  come  down  and  see  the  place  for  yourself.  I  can  give 


6  TAMARISK  TOWN 

you  hospitality,  and  you  can  look  round,  and  meet  some  of  the 
Town  Council." 

"Thanks.  I  should  like  that.  No  time  this  week,  but  if 
next  will  suit  you  .  .  .  ." 

"Perfectly.  I  should  like  you  to  see  the  town — it's  ideally 
situated  for  our  scheme.  Nature's  given  us  a  start  in  the  way 
of  climate  and  scenery.  Which  day  next  week?" 

He  surveyed  Becket  impatiently  as  he  ran  through  the 
crowded  list  of  his  engagements. 

"Thursday?"  said  the  merchant.  "I'm  afraid  I  can't  man- 
age anything  before  then,  and  I'll  have  to  be  back  on  Friday." 

"Very  well — Thursday,"  and  Monypenny  rose  to  take  leave. 
"I'll  meet  you  if  you  let  me  know  your  train.  You'll  like 
the  place,  and  I'm  sure  you'll  never  repent  of  your  decision." 

"I  haven't  decided  anything,"  said  Becket,  but  Monypenny 
had  gone. 

For  some  minutes  Becket  sat  staring  abstractedly  at  the 
clock.  Well,  he  was  committed,  he  supposed,  and  he  wasn't 
sorry.  He  wanted  some  interest  outside  his  city  affairs.  This 
would  bring  him  credit,  too.  .  .  .  But  he  was  not  so  sure  of 
that  as  he  had  been  before  this  interview  with  Monypenny. 
He  now  realised  that  if  the  thing  succeeded  and  there  was 
credit  for  anyone  it  would  somehow  be  Monypenny's,  that  if 
anyone  swaggered  through  Marlingate's  festivals  as  a  Victo- 
rian Beau  Nash  it  would  be  Monypenny,  that  if  anyone  had 
a  street  named  after  him  or  a  statue  erected  outside  the  Town 
Hall  it  would  be  Monypenny.  Damn  Monypenny! 

§3 

In  spite  of  the  omnibuses  jolting  down  Fleet  Street  and  the 
Strand,  Monypenny  walked  from  Becket's  office  to  the  Golden 
Cross  Hotel.  He  liked  the  jostle  of  the  pavements,  all 
the  black-coated  activity  round  him,  the  hurrying  clerks,  the 
office-boys  running  laden  to  the  post,  even  those  who  bumped 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE          7 

into  him  as  they  raced  with  time — the  almost  complete  ab- 
sence of  loiterers,  and  above  all  of  women  with  their  languors 
and  futilities.  Though  he  was  going  to  create  a  Paradise  for 
these,  neither  they  nor  their  Paradise  counted  as  much  as 
the  labours  that  should  raise  it,  the  stately  activities  of  the 
borough  fathers  from  which  it  should  spring. 

He  called  at  the  Hotel  for  his  luggage,  and  had  it  brought 
across  the  river  to  the  station.  He  must  catch  the  twelve 
o'clock  train  down  to  Marlingate,  as  there  was  a  Corporation 
Dinner  that  evening  at  five.  It  was  the  first  since  the  Mu- 
nicipal elections,  and  of  more  than  usual  momentousness,  for 
at  it  were  to  be  announced  the  details  of  the  new  great  scheme. 

It  was  many  years  now  since  the  Town  Council  had  begun 
to  dream  of  transforming  their  plain  dumpling  borough  into 
the  spiced  confectionery  of  a  watering-place.  Those  dreams 
had  been  at  first  withheld  from  materialisation  by  a  reaction- 
ary element  in  the  Town  Council  itself — sturdy  fisher-folk  who 
had  made  their  money  at  the  nets,  and  scorned  a  future  un- 
connected with  what  had  been  Marlingate's  most  flourishing 
industry  ever  since  free  trade  took  the  bread  out  of  the  poor 
smuggler's  mouth.  However,  during  the  last  few  years  this 
faction  had  lost  its  grip,  and  the  Progressives  had  got  the  up- 
per hand.  These  eagerly  welcomed  Monypenny  into  their 
ranks,  as  the  biggest  land-owner  of  the  neighbourhood,  who  had 
lately  come  of  age,  and  succeeded  to  the  estates  that  stretched 
from  Cuckoo  Hill  in  the  west  to  All  Holland  in  the  east,  and 
from  the  Warrior's  Gate  at  the  north  end  of  the  town  away  up 
to  the  Sussex  Weald.  A  precocious  borough-father,  he  had 
been  elected  Councillor,  and  three  years  later  an  Alderman. 
The  Council  suddenly  woke  to  the  fact  that  he  was  its  un- 
official head,  that  it  was  he,  not  Mr.  Pelham,  the  Mayor,  who 
led  the  Progressives.  There  had  been  no  actual  or  noticeable 
fight  for  supremacy — he  had  just  quietly  assumed  it.  In  a  fit 
of  nervousness  they  offered  him  the  mayoralty,  which  he  de- 
clined. He  was  too  young,  he  said,  with  an  odd  kind  of  dif- 


8  TAMARISK  TOWN 

fidence  which  he  showed  occasionally.  The  excuse  came  as  a 
shock. 

It  was  a  four  hours'  journey  down  to  Marlingate,  and  lit- 
tle or  no  provision  was  made  for  passengers  in  the  way  of 
food  or  the  warming  of  the  train.  Monypenny  bought  a  Daily 
News  for  fourpence, — he  was  a  Liberal  of  the  intellectual 
type,  sometimes  sharply  critical  even  of  his  own  party — and 
made  himself  as  comfortable  as  he  could  in  a  second-class  car- 
riage. Hooting  absurdly,  the  little  green  engine  with  its  long 
tooth-rimmed  funnel,  clanked  its  tail  of  wooden  coaches  out  of 
the  station,  and  shook  itself  into  a  reckless  pace  of  fifteen  miles 
an  hour. 

Monypenny  watched  the  jogging  country — the  meadow- 
lands  and  spinneys  of  Kent  and  Sussex,  smudged  with  autumn 
fogs.  Open  country  had  for  him  at  once  a  repulsion  and  a 
charm.  It  was  the  life  outside  his  life,  so  to  speak,  the  life 
he  glanced  at  in  his  moments  of  leisure  from  the  squat  ur- 
banities of  Marlingate.  All  around  the  town  the  brown  woods 
heaped  themselves  over  his  land.  He  could  see  them  from 
his  study  where  he  worked  at  plans  and  calculations,  and, 
suddenly  lifting  his  eyes  to  them  from  some  design  for  the  new 
parade  or  the  Borough  gardens,  he  would  have  a  quick  un- 
easy sense  as  of  a  wild  animal  crouching  at  the  door. 

As  far  as  the  jolting  of  the  train  would  allow  he  read  his 
paper,  and  made  notes  in  his  pocket  note-book.  By  the  time 
he  reached  Marlingate  these  were,  as  spasmodically  recorded: 
"Ask  Becket  to  contribute  to  Borough  Loan."  ...  "Be  care- 
ful of  Gallop  at  dinner."  .  .  .  "Good  idea — offer  to  lower 
rents  on  the  State — this  will  draw  him."  .  .  .  "Railway  ser- 
vice must  be  improved — only  takes  three  hours  to  Brighton." 
....  "Be  careful  of  Lewnes,  or  he  will  vulgarise  the  place. 
He  is  a  common  fellow."  .  .  .  "Offer  Becket  to  name  a  street 
after  him."  ....  "Genteel  houses  only."  .  .  .  "Guide-book 
necessary.  Who  will  write  it?"  .  .  .  "Becket  is  a  fool." 

At  last  after  much  pottering  among  'hams  and  'hursts,  the 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE          9 

train  sidled  into  Marlingate  station.  Monypenny  stretched 
his  cramped  limbs,  and  brushed  off  the  superficialities  of  dust 
and  grime.  He  gave  his  bag  to  the  porter,  for  he  did  not 
want  to  drive.  There  was  always  a  thrill  for  him  in  the  walk 
from  the  station,  through  the  town,  to  Gun  Garden  House. 
The  air  twanged  faintly  with  the  smell  of  fish — it  was  the 
good  smell  of  the  town,  exhaled  from  all  its  brined  and  cob- 
bled streets.  Down  where  the  new  Station  Road  joined  the 
High  Street  by  the  America  Ground  there  was  for  a  moment 
the  gustier  smell  of  the  sea,  with  a  glimpse  of  its  white  breakers 
fretting  at  the  groynes.  The  dusk  hung  over  sea  and  streets, 
a  web  in  which  were  meshed  dim  orange  stars — the  lights  of 
house  windows  and  little  shops,  and  the  lights  of  the  fishing 
boats  that  bobbed  on  the  deep  waters  off  Rock-a-Nore. 

In  the  High  Street  it  was  less  than  dusk,  for  the  tall  houses 
gloomed  over  it,  and  blocked  out  the  lingering  radiations  from 
the  west.  The  street  was  very  narrow,  and  paved  with  boul- 
ders and  mine-stones,  which  made  it  rough  going  for  anyone 
who  forsook  the  high  pavements,  standing  occasionally  four 
feet  above  it,  and  recalling  the  days  when  it  used  to  be  flooded 
at  the  spring  tides.  The  houses,  in  their  weather-stung  irreg- 
ularity, gave  an  odd  impression  of  growth.  It  seemed  incon- 
gruous to  link  human  art  and  labour  with  their  gnarled  front- 
ages. Most  were  tall — storey  piled  on  storey,  projecting,  re- 
ceding, overhanging,  leaning,  bulging,  according  to  the  fancy, 
or  necessity,  of  the  builder.  Seen  from  the  street  they  showed 
a  chevaux  de  frise  of  gables  pricking  the  sky,  with  here  and 
there  an  early  star  among  their  spikes. 

At  the  end  of  the  High  Street  on  the  right  was  a  wilder- 
ness of  tamarisk  and  alder,  stretching  eastward  across  the 
town  to  the  mouth  of  Fish  Street,  which  ran  seawards  par- 
allel to  the  High  Street.  Opposite,  stood  a  peaceable  white 
house  from  whose  pillared  porch  a  lantern  swung.  It  was  just 
inside  the  boundaries  of  the  town,  as  marked  by  the  crumbling 
Warrior's  Gate.  It  stood  plumb  on  the  road,  and  had  once 


10  TAMARISK  TOWN 

been  an  inn — the  French  Gun.  Though  for  over  a  hundred 
years  it  had  been  used  as  a  dwelling-house  there  was  still 
something  strangely  inn-like  about  it,  and  travellers  had  even 
been  known  to  halt  there  by  mistake,  as  if  the  tavern  spirit 
still  haunted  it  and  called  to  them. 

Monypenny  rang  the  bell,  and  was  let  in  by  West,  his  man. 
He  entered  the  gloomy  house  with  a  sense  of  relief  and  home- 
coming. The  dark  walls,  lowering  balustrade,  and  cumbrous 
furniture  were  all  part  of  the  idea  of  home  and  peace  and  se- 
clusion which  gave  refreshment  to  the  straining  activities  of  his 
public  life.  He  had  lived  there  from  his  birth  in  the  remote 
society  of  his  mother,  whose  death,  just  before  he  came  of  age, 
had  made  little  difference  to  him  either  in  habit  or  emotion. 
The  Monypennys,  of  far  back  Scottish  descent,  came  of  a 
good  yeoman  stock  which  used  to  till  the  soil  outside  Mar- 
lingate.  Only  a  generation  lay  between  Edward  and  old 
Brinton  Monypenny,  owner  of  Leasan  House  on  the  Romney 
marshes.  Prosperity  had  brought  his  son  into  the  town,  where 
he  had  married  money  and  bought  a  large  estate.  He  had  a 
passion  for  acres,  and  added  to  his  domains  by  buying  all  the 
land  he  could  lay  hold  of,  sometimes  at  crippling  prices.  He 
had  died  soon  after  his  son's  birth,  and  his  widow  would  have 
liked  to  sell  some  of  the  estate,  as  the  family's  income  was  by 
no  means  in  proportion  to  its  acres.  But  by  the  terms  of  the 
will  she  could  not  do  so  till  her  son  came  of  age,  and  b}-  that 
time  she  was  dead,  and  he  had  formed  plans  which  made  every 
foot  of  it  precious. 

From  his  study  window  this  night  he  could  see  his  territories 
sweep  up  almost  to  the  crest  of  Cuckoo  Hill,  which  showed  a 
crinkled  outline  against  the  spent  fires  of  sunset.  Northward 
the  fog  blurred  them  into  the  weald.  They  were  thickly 
wooded,  spinney  linked  to  spinney  by  tentacles  of  under- 
growth, copse  after  copse  ringing  field  and  farm.  They  were 
oddly  shaggy  and  primeval  for  lands  so  near  a  town,  and 
that  evening  as  he  looked  out  at  them  he  again  had  the  sen- 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE        11 

sation  as  of  some  animal  crouching  outside  and  waiting  to 
spring. 

§4 

The  Maidenhood  Inn  was  half  way  down  the  High  Street, 
opposite  the  Town  Hall.  Here  the  Corporation  had  kept  its 
feasts  from  time  immemorable.  The  long,  raftered  dining-room, 
where  the  walls  were  draped  with  fishing-nets  and  decorated 
with  cases  of  stuffed  fish,  had  echoed  to  countless  Mayoral 
speeches  and  Aldermanic  toasts.  The  smells  of  long-forgotten 
dinners  still  seemed  to  haunt  it,  reeking  stuffily  from  wood  and 
plaster,  subduing  the  smell  of  sawdust  and  stale  beer  that 
filled  the  rest  of  the  house,  and  even  the  all-pervading  smell 
of  fish  which  was  the  personal  odour  of  the  town. 

Monypenny  as  he  entered  sniffed  almost  eagerly  at  the 
thick  flavourous  air,  now  further  condensed  by  tobacco  smoke; 
for  the  company  was  smoking  while  awaiting  its  full  assem- 
bly. Hewitson  Pelham,  the  Mayor,  presided,  already  panting 
in  his  robes  of  office.  Beside  him  was  his  son  Robert,  a  lump- 
ish youth,  with  rolling  well-oiled  quiff,  and  a  suit  of  drabs 
which  did  not  fit  him.  Monypenny  greeted  them  with  a  mix- 
ture of  formality  and  indifference  which  was  characteristic 
of  him.  He  was  more  elegantly  dressed  than  anyone  in  the 
room  in  a  dark-blue  suit  of  French  cloth,  with  long,  tight 
trousers.  There  were  rumours  afloat  that  he  went  to  a  Lon- 
don tailor,  which  was  considered  unpatriotic,  as  everyone  else 
was  arbitrarily  clothed  by  Alderman  Lewnes  who  had  a 
draper's  shop  and  tailoring  business  three  doors  from  the 
Maidenhood.  Alderman  Lewnes  stood  close  to  the  Mayor,  a 
youngish,  stoutish,  fussy  little  man,  by  no  means  a  happy 
example  of  his  own  cut  and  skill. 

"Good  evening,  Monypenny" — with  an  obvious  effort  leav- 
ing out  the  "Mr."  to  maintain  the  equalities  of  borough  life. 

"Good  evening." 


12  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"Just  come  home.  Had  jolly  time?  The  Great  City.  .  .  . 
Tehe!" 

"I  went  to  the  Leather-sellers'  dinner." 

"And  somewhere  else,  I'll  be  bound "  and  again  with  an 

obvious  effort  Lewnes  dug  him  in  the  ribs.  He  had  a  local  rep- 
utation as  a  Dog. 

"Nowhere  else,"  said  Monypenny. 

"I  went  to  Brighton  the  other  day,  and  picked  up  a  few 
ideas  for  the  Development." 

"Brighton's  going  down.    It's  becoming  Londonised." 

"Brighton's  good  enough  for  me.  If  we  ever  do  as  well  as 
Brighton  we  shan't  have  much  to  complain  about.  I  should 
like  to  know  what  their  Borough  Fund  stands  at." 

"Ours  isn't  so  bad." 

"No,  no.    But  we'll  have  to  increase  the  rates." 

"Certainly." 

"And  there'll  be  squealing." 

"I  hope  not." 

"Sure  to  be.  All  these  herring-trimmers  down  at  the  Stade." 
.  .  .  "Gentlemen,  dinner  is  served." 

The  host,  bringing  in  the  turtle  soup,  fortunately  inter- 
rupted Lewnes  just  as  Councillor  Gallop — known  as  the  Fish- 
ermen's Councillor,  and  brawny  with  long  labour  at  the  nets — 
had  begun  to  move  towards  him.  The  Company  spread  itself 
noisily  round  the  tables,  and  still  more  noisily  sat  down,  after 
the  Rev.  Somerville  Hunt,  Rector  of  St.  Nicholas,  had  said 
grace.  The  turtle  soup  was  an  innovation,  on  Mansion  House 
lines,  and  complained  of  by  some  who  found  it  took  the  edge 
off  their  appetite,  with  few  compensations — and  by  a  larger 
number  to  whom  its  elegant  consumption  presented  difficulties 
of  an  apparently  insurmountable  kind. 

The  Town  Council  was  built  up  mostly  of  tradesmen, 
with  a  salting  of  the  middle  classes.  The  Mayor  belonged  to 
the  latter,  being  descended  from  a  line  of  street-owners  whosj 
name  had  been  linked  with  Marlingate  from  the  fourteenth 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE         13 

century.  Councillor  Breeds  was  a  retired  doctor,  and  Coun- 
cillor Wastel  a  solicitor.  On  the  other  hand,  Alderman  Vidler 
was  not  ashamed  to  retail  beefsteaks  in  person  to  fisher- 
men's wives  on  Saturday  night,  Councillor  Elphee  still  faintly 
smelt  of  tallow  from  his  grocer's  shop,  and  Councillor  Lusted 
was  a  builder,  responsible  for  most  of  the  tall,  bow-windowed 
houses  of  tarred  brick  that  had  lately  shot  up  on  the  Coney 
Banks. 

At  the  Town  Banquet  all  were  equals,  for  all  had  been  bap- 
tised into  one  endeavour.  The  advancement  of  Marlingate 
was  as  a  gospel  to  its  Borough  Council,  long  prophesied,  long 
prepared  for,  and  now  at  last  revealed.  True  there  were  some 
heretics,  even  at  the  table,  but  these  hardly  counted  in  the 
prevailing  orthodoxy. 

For  years  there  had  been  a  Progressive  party  in  the  Cor- 
poration, which  spoke  unheeded  of  Parades  and  Assembly 
Rooms,  building  and  sanitary  reform.  Tljey  had  much  to 
fight  against — a  majority  of  old  men,  who  disliked  the 
thought  of  change,  to  whom  the  stationary  statistics  at  every 
census  were  a  sign  of  grace,  who  wanted  no  more  stimulat- 
ing debauch  than  a  game  of  skittles,  took  pleasure  in  the  soft 
green  down  that  bloomed  the  less  travelled  streets,  and  en- 
joyed the  full  flavour  of  the  Gut's  Mouth  Brook  if  excep- 
tionally they  were  reduced  to  drinking  water. 

One  by  one  these  had  paid  the  penalty  of  reaction  and 
been  swallowed  up  by  the  floods  they  chose  to  ignore.  They 
had  died  out,  faded  out,  and  their  place  had  been  taken  by 
the  young  and  burning — "Monypenny's  young  men"  as  they 
came  to  be  called,  though  most  of  them  ante-dated  Mony- 
penny.  There  had  been  a  regular  explosion  of  town-plan- 
ning and  surveying,  and  Monypenny  had  given  out  his  in- 
tention of  building  over  his  estate  as  soon  as  his  budget  would 
allow.  Lately  it  had  been  rumoured  that  he  had  found  a 
financial  backer,  who  would  not  only  advance  money  for 
building  and  road-making,  but  take  interest  in  the  town  in 


14  TAMARISK  TOWN 

other   ways,   improving   its   resources,    and    contributing    to 
its  revenues. 

Tonight  the  rumour  was  made  official.  Monypenny  con- 
firmed Becket's  undertaking — without  the  conditions  and 
reservations  that  gentleman  still  cherished  in  his  ignorance. 
Mr.  Hugo  Becket,  on  the  board  of  the  Worshipful  Company  of 
Leathersellers,  had  become  so  deeply  interested  in  Marlingate 
that  he  had  declared  his  willingness  to  invest  a  large  part  of 
his  immense  fortune  in  its  concerns.  This  fell  a  little  short 
of  rumour.  Some  had  said  that  Monypenny's  backer  was  a 
peer,  others  that  he  was  an  offshoot  of  royalty  itself.  A  ro- 
mantic minority  had  changed  the  sex  and  credited  some  in- 
fatuated woman  with  tremendous  sacrifices.  It  was  a  little 
disappointing  to  find  that  the  town's  coffers  were  to  be  filled 
by  nobody  more  exciting  than  a  city  merchant,  a  member 
of  one  of  the  lesser  Companies,  too.  However,  the  results 
would  be  the  same,  and  good  steady  results,  judging  by  Mony- 
penny's details — a  residential  district  as  a  bait  to  a  perma- 
nent aristocracy  was  almost  awe-inspiring  in  its  possibilities. 
.  .  .  Alderman  Lewnes  already  saw  his  shop  double-fronted, 
and  Alderman  Vidler  was  delivering  legs  of  lamb  to 
Marchionesses. 

§5 

The  dinner  took  an  immense  time,  for  the  Marlingate  fathers 
had  immense  appetites — and  it  was  something  more  than  a 
rumour  that  many  of  them  increased  their  natural  capacities 
by  an  introductory  fast.  Conversation  was  at  first  spasmodi- 
cally and  indistinctly  confined  to  Monypenny's  news.  Then 
as  the  madeira  succeeded  the  sherry,  and  the  claret  the  ma- 
deira, till  at  last  the  port  was  on  the  table,  tongues 
wagged  more  and  more  noisily,  so  that  Tom  Tutt,  the  host, 
hereditary  toast-maker,  had  to  shout  for  silence  when  the 
Mayor  rose. 

"Gentlemen!    His  Worship  the  Mayor!" 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE        15 

There  was  loud  cheering,  and  some  raucous  attempts  to 
start  "For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow." 

Hewitson  Pelham  bowed  and  beamed.  "Aldermen,  Coun- 
cillors, and  gentlemen  of  Marlingate,"  he  began  richly. 

Silence  fell  at  once,  and  all  eyes  turned  on  the  town's  father, 
majestic  in  his  red  and  black  robes,  fur-trimmed  and  caped, 
with  the  chain  of  office  lying  heavy  as  a  Guildhall  banquet 
on  his  breast. 

"Aldermen,  Councillors,  and  gentlemen — we  are  gathered 
together  at  our  Municipal  Banquet  to  celebrate  those  elec- 
tions which  have  established — or  re-established,  as  the  case 
may  be — us  in  those  situations  and  offices  we  anticipate  fill- 
ing for  the  coming  year.  But  more  than  ordinary  import- 
ance attaches  to  this  reunion  and  to  the  year  of  which  it  is  the 
precursor,  for  Marlingate  is,  as  you  are  all  aware,  to  embark 
on  new  and  adventurous  enterprises"  (loud  cheers).  "For 
some  time,  gentlemen,  the  Mayor  and  Corporation  of  this 
Borough  have  had  under  their  consideration  plans  for  trans- 
forming Marlingate  from  a  sequestered,  if  thriving,  fishing- 
town  into  a  genteel  watering-place"  (roars  of  approval,  some 
cries  of  'Hear!  hear!'  and  a  groan).  "Marlingate  is  not  un- 
known to  fame  already  for  its  charming  climate  and  unique 
bathing,  but  all  who  appreciate  it  agree  that  it  has  not 
achieved  the  celebrity,  to  say  nothing  of  the  fashion,  it  de- 
serves, and  acute  and  zealous  minds  among  us  have  been 
busily  scheming  its  development  in  this  respect.  I  can  now 
announce  to  you  that  we  have  agreed  upon  a  plan  of  action, 
owing  greatly  to  the  energy,  the  forethought,  and  sound  com- 
mercial sense  of  Alderman  Monypenny"  (a  pause,  some 
cheering  and  a  great  craning  of  necks).  "Alderman  Mony- 
penny kas  been  long  enough  among  us  to  impress  us  with  his 
clearness  and  energy  of  mind.  None  of  us  has  Marlingate's 
interests  more  sincerely  at  heart  than  he.  I  am  not  a  great 
speaker"  (loud  cries  of  dissension,  appropriately  acknowledged 
by  the  borough  stylist)  "so  I  will  call  on  Alderman  Mony- 


16  TAMARISK  TOWN 

penny  to  put  before  you  the  scheme  which,  after  much  de- 
liberation and  consultation,  has  been  evolved  for  the  devel- 
opment of  this  town  from  a  place  of  industry  to  a  place  of 
fashion,  from  the  resort  of  the  retiring  and  industrious  few  to 
the  playground  of  the  leisured  and  genteel  many — so  that 
the  great  name  of  Brighton  shall  not  ring  more  gloriously 
than  the  name  of  Marlingate,  whose  Mayor  I  am,  whose  Al- 
dermen and  Councillors  you  are,  and  whose  interests  I  war- 
rant you  all  have  next  your  hearts,  resolute  to  consecrate 
your  intellects  and  labours  to  the  advancement  of  the  town 
which  I  prophesy  will  in  ten  years'  time  rob  Brighton  of  her 
proud  title  of  Queen  of  Watering  Places." 

This  was  a  record  even  for  the  Mayor,  and  the  cheering 
was  prolonged  for  some  minutes  after  he  sat  down.  Mony- 
penny  rose  in  the  thick  of  it,  and  stood  waiting  for  it  to 
subside.  He  hardly  seemed  to  notice  his  surroundings,  but 
fixed  his  eyes  on  a  stuffed  tunny-fish  on  the  opposite  wall,  at 
which  he  continued  to  stare  during  the  whole  of  his  speech. 

He  did  not  speak  like  the  Mayor  in  flowing  periods,  with  a 
tendency  of  the  current  to  slop  over.  A  rather  harsh  voice 
and  an  abstracted  gaze  established  no  sentimental  link  be- 
tween him  and  his  audience;  but  somehow  behind  his  words 
was  a  vital  quality,  a  knife-edged  enthusiasm  which  seemed 
to  drive  them  into  men's  hearts  and  mix  them  with  their 
blood. 

The  matter  of  his  speech  was  bald  enough.  He  began  with 
reading  out  the  names  of  those  elected  to  serve  on  the  new 
Town  Committee — the  Mayor,  of  course,  Monypenny  himself, 
tvith  his  fellow-Aldermen  Lewnes  and  Vidler,  and  Councillors 
Breeds,  Lusted  and  Wastel.  The  Committee  would  meet  once 
a  month  and  deal  exclusively  with  the  development  scheme. 

He  then  outlined  the  scheme  itself.  It  would  begin  with 
reforms  in  such  homely  matters  as  sanitation  and  water-sup- 
ply. These  things,  he  said,  were  more  thought  of  now  than 
they  used  to  be,  especially  by  people  of  fashion.  The  Cor- 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE        17 

poration  were  considering  the  building  of  waterworks  on  the 
Totty  Lands,  for  which  they  intended  raising  a  loan.  He  him- 
self would  give  the  land  for  the  undertaking.  Later  on  he 
hoped  to  lay  out  the  whole  of  his  estate  in  municipal  build- 
ing, thus  increasing  the  area  of  Marlingate  by  some  thou< 
sand  acres.  This  could  be  worked  up  into  a  fashionable  resi> 
dential  quarter,  where  good  houses  could  be  let  to  good  peo- 
ple. For  summer  visitors  lodgings  would  have  to  be  found  in 
the  town  itself,  the  nearer  the  shore  the  better.  With  this  end 
in  view  the  Corporation  purposed  pulling  down  the  old  Town 
Hall  and  building  a  Marine  Parade,  such  as  is  usual  in  seaside 
towns.  Naturally  an  Assembly  Room  would  have  to  be  built 
for  balls,  parties  and  concerts,  and  it  was  also  intended  to  de- 
velop the  waste  ground  known  as  the  Wilderness  into  a  Pub- 
lic Garden  or  Town  Park.  Further,  the  piece  of  derelict  land 
known  as  the  America  Ground  would  have  to  be  brought 
within  the  Borough's  jurisdiction.  As  the  Council  knew,  it 
was  at  present  no-man's  land,  being  a  part  of  the  sea-floor 
abandoned  by  the  tides,  and  therefore  free  to  any  beggars, 
gipsies,  or  other  undesirables  who  might  camp  on  it — with  the 
result  that  a  mock  city  of  shacks,  huts,  and  tents  encroached 
on  the  western  edge  of  the  town,  just  where  the  new  Parade 
would  end. 

He  finished  abruptly  and  unexpectedly,  and  the  company, 
which  never  could  accustom  itself  to  his  perorationless  endings, 
was  taken  aback,  and  instead  of  cheering  sat  expectant.  Even 
when  it  realised  his  dues,  applause  soon  passed  into  discus- 
sion. 

Alderman  Lewnes  was  the  first  to  stand  up,  his  napkin 
still  tucked  forgetfully  under  his  chin.  He  wished,  he  said, 
to  give  his  hearty  support  to  every  word  Alderman  Mony- 
penny  had  uttered.  For  a  long  while  they  had  all  been  think- 
ing Marlingate  was  a  little  behind  the  times.  The  place 
needed  waking  up.  They  wanted  smart  people  to  come  down, 
people  who  would  appreciate  London  styles.  He  had  long  been 


i8  TAMARISK  TOWN 

wanting  to  develop  his  business  on  more  up-to-date  lines,  but 
he  had  received  little  encouragement  from  the  residents,  who 
seemed  to  think  that  Marlingate  could  be  a  law  unto  itself  in 
matters  of  taste.  This  development  scheme  would  be  an  excel- 
lent thing  for  shopkeepers.  He  foretold  a  new  era  of  pros- 
perity for  local  trade.  The  shops  of  Marlingate  would  be- 
come as  famous  as  the  shops  of  Brighton,  second  only  to 
London  in  the  lead  of  fashion.  He  also  applauded  Alderman 
Monypenny's  loyal  offer  of  his  estate  for  building  purposes. 
If  this  enterprise  was  successful  he,  Lewnes,  might  think  of 
bricks  and  mortar  in  connection  with  a  bit  of  land  he  had  on 
the  Coney  Banks. 

Loud  cheers  greeted  this  generous  announcement,  in  the 
midst  of  which  up  rose  Councillor  Gallop — the  Fishermen's 
Councillor  as  he  was  called,  for  he  was  related  to  nearly 
every  family  in  the  fishing  quarter,  and  spoke  the  fisher  lingo 
even  at  Corporation  meetings. 

"Wotsumever  you  mean  to  do  wud  the  quality,  my  mas- 
ters, I  hope  you  won't  forget  as  this  is  fust  and  foremost  a 
fisherman's  town,  and  as  we  don't  want  to  see  the  Corpora- 
tion neglect  our  trade  for  concerns  that  sound  grand  but 
have  unaccountable  petty  sawdust  in  them.  Parades  and 
Parks  and  Waterworks  are  all  very  fine,  but  the  herring-net 
brings  in  boco  more  money  and  doesn't  cost  such  a  deal  to 
start.  I  ain't  fur  saying  we  should  kip  things  as  they  are — 
have  the  gentry  down  and  let  'em  eat  our  herrings.  But  don't 
go  clearing  out  the  Stade  to  build  'em  pleasure  gardens,  and 
as  for  the  America  Ground  there's  many  an  honest  man  has 
his  home  there."  ("No!"  very  loud  from  Alderman  Vidler.) 
"Fishery  pays  better  than  gentry  in  the  long  run,  having  naun 
to  do  wud  building  and  fashions.  We  don't  have  to  beat  a 
drum  to  get  the  herrings  down.  .  .  ." 

Here  he  was  interrupted  by  a  little  tow-whiskered  man, 
who  shot  up  in  his  place  with  the  cry — "I  object  to  the 
whole  thing!"  This  was  Councillor  Elphee,  son  of  a  late 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE        19 

Mayor  of  the  reactionary  school,  a  grocer  by  trade  and  a 
Methodist  by  conviction,  and  owner  of  some  forty  acres  of 
All  Holland  Hill. 

"I  object  to  the  whole  thing,"  he  repeated,  "it's  only  a 
cloak  for  bringing  vice  and  ungodliness  into  the  town." 

"Come,  come,  Mr.  Elphee,"  said  the  Mayor,  "you've  no 
right  to  say  that.  The  very  names  of  the  Town  Committee 
guarantee " 

"They  guarantee  nothing,  your  worship." 

"That's  because  his  ain't  among  'em,"  came  a  ribald  in- 
terruption. 

"I  would  scorn  to  have  my  name  associated  with  an  under- 
taking to  demoralise  the  town." 

"Prove  your  words,  sir!"  cried  Councillor  Lusted. 

"Well,  you  say  you  want  to  make  this  place  like  Brighton, 
and  the  sea  front  at  Brighton's  nothing  but  a  walk  of  adulter- 
ers and  adulteresses." 

"Come,  come,  Mr.  Elphee,"  and  his  Victorian  worship 
blenched,  "you've  no  need  to  be  so — er — Biblical  in  your 
language.  Besides,  even  if  what  you  imagine  were  a  fact, 
which  it  is  not  by  a  very  long  way,  it  would  not  follow  that 
similar  scandals  would  be  tolerated  for  one  moment  in  this 
borough.  As  I've  said  the  very  names  on  the  Town  Com- 
mittee ..." 

"There's  not  one  man  of  grace  among  them!"  cried  El- 
phee. 

Monypenny  rose. 

"The  members  were  elected,  as  your  worship  knows,  by 
the  Council  and  chief  burgesses.  The  chief  condition  of  mem- 
bership was  enthusiasm  for  the  borough's  concerns,  which 
naturally  did  not  give  much  chance  to  gentlemen  who  pre- 
ferred herrings  or  their  Bibles." 

"Now,  Alderman,  you've  no  need  to  jeer  at  me  along  of 
him,"  cried  Gallop  truculently. 

"I'm  not  jeering  at  you.    You  have  a  perfect  right  to  pre- 


20  TAMARISK  TOWN 

fer  herrings  to  anything  in  the  universe,  and,  to  show  you 
that  this  Council  acknowledges  your  rights,  it  proposes  to 
lower  the  rents  on  the  Stade." 

Gallop  was  taken  aback.  He  had  been  fighting  for  a  re- 
duction for  years,  and  here  it  was  half  contemptuously  thrown 
at  him  in  the  course  of  some  other  undertaking. 

"If  you  don't  meddle  wud  me  I  won't  meddle  wud  you," 
he  said  sulkily. 

Councillor  Elphee  opened  his  mouth  to  wage  his  share  of 
the  quarrel,  but  Pelham,  nervous  of  strife,  and  also  nervous 
of  what  Alderman  Monypenny  might  offer  further  in  the 
cause  of  peace,  stood  up  and  supplanted  him. 

"Gentlemen,  I  beg  you  not  to  let  any  altercation  spoil  the 
unanimity  of  our  reunion.  I  feel  sure  that  the  plans  under 
consideration  will  interfere  in  no  wise  with  the  customary 
trade  of  the  town,  which,  on  the  contrary,  will  be  substan- 
tially encouraged  in  all  its  branches.  Moreover,  no  one  in  any 
way  familiar  with  the  principles  of  this  Corporation  can  fear 
for  the  cause  of  religion  and  good  order  in  our  midst.  Our 
great  object  must  be,  as  Alderman  Monypenny  has  re- 
minded us,  gentility,  which  is  incompatible  both  with  vice 
and  with  vulgarity.  Our  aim  is  to  achieve  a  thoroughly 
genteel  and  fashionable  watering-place,  select  yet  lively, 
quiet  yet  abounding  in  entertainment,  in  perfect  taste  and 
in  perfect  style.  I  think  that  the  matter  has  been  most  sat- 
isfactorily discussed,  and  we  can  now  proceed  from  conver- 
sation to  endeavour.  Therefore,  I  propose  a  toast,  our  first 
toast  this  evening  and  the  most  glorious  we  have  drunk  for 
years:  To  the  growth  and  prosperity  of  Marlingate!— 
Marlingate  the  resort  of  fashion,  the  conqueror  of  Brighton, 
the  queen  of  watering-places!  Gentlemen — Marlingate!" 

Everyone  stood  up,  and  glasses  were  emptied  to  shouts  of 
"Marlingate!" — "Long  live  Marlingate!" — "Marlingate  and 
no  heel-taps!" — "Marlingate,  gentlemen! — Marlingate!" 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE        21 

§6 

It  was  past  one  o'clock  when  the  party  at  the  Maidenhood 
Inn  broke  up — a  dozen  Aldermen  and  Councillors,  with  a 
small-fry  of  clerks,  all  genially  stuffed,  and  no  one  carrying 
less  than  three  bottles  of  excellent  wine.  The  Mayor  walked 
home  with  his  son  to  Harpsichord  House,  so  called  because 
it  straddled  Fish  Street  like  a  grotesque  pianoforte.  Alder- 
man Vidler  went  with  them  as  far  as  the  Grand  Passage 
Way,  glad  of  the  worshipful  company  to  condone  a  slight  roll 
in  his  gait.  The  same  slight  roll  in  the  case  of  Councillor 
Lusted  was  tackled  by  his  linking  arms  with  Councillor  Was- 
tel,  who  in  his  turn  hooked  on  to  Councillor  Putland,  who, 
linked  to  Councillor  Breeds,  stretched  their  line  right  across 
the  High  Street  till  they  had  to  break  up  at  the  Petty  Pas- 
sage Way.  Elphee,  the  opposition,  was  drawn  by  a  certain 
fellow  feeling  to  Gallop,  who  was  not,  however,  so  much  op- 
position as  a  thorn  in  the  ministerial  flesh.  Councillor  Luck, 
whose  road  led  by  the  America  Ground,  took  hold  of  Tom 
Potter,  the  Town  Clerk,  and  a  stout  oak  stick. 

Soon  all  h£,d  gone  except  Lewnes  and  Monypenny.  The 
latter  stood  in  the  doorway,  brushing  with  his  sleeve  his  tall 
chimney-pot  hat.  Lewnes  looked  as  if  he  would  have  liked 
to  ask  him  for  his  company  as  far  as  the  Coney  Bank  Steps, 
but  Monypenny  had  art  with  Lewnes,  and  without  offending 
him  to  any  dangerous  point,  managed  to  keep  their  inter- 
course within  limits  tolerable  to  himself.  Of  all  the  Town 
Council,  not  excepting  Elphee  and  Gallop,  he  liked  Lewnes 
the  least.  He  saw  him  as  that  most  dangerous  of  followers, 
the  disciple  who  will  always  go  one  better  than  his  master. 
He  saw  him  besides  as  a  Brummagem  link  in  the  borough 
chain,  a  tliread  of  shoddy  in  Marlingate's  adornment.  This 
municipal  cheap-Jack,  this  shop-keeping  Progressive — Mony- 
penny hid  his  contempt  and  opposition  only  that  he  might 
the  better  mould  him  to  his  restraints.  Tonight  he  felt  that 


22  TAMARISK  TOWN 

he  could  not  foul  his  triumph  with  such  company,  so  man- 
aged just  without  rudeness — he  was  accomplished  in  such 
negative  intercourse — to  send  the  Alderman  off  alone.  A  few 
minutes  later  he  himself  started  on  his  way  home.  Up  the 
High  Street,  under  the  blind  windows,  his  footsteps  clinked 
in  the  hush  of  the  town,  as  he  marched  sonorously  past  the 
Coney  Bank  Steps  and  the  Wilderness  to  the  glooming  door- 
way of  Gun  Garden  House. 

He  let  himself  in,  and  sighed  deeply  as  the  dark,  still  at- 
mosphere of  the  place  closed  round  him.  He  loved  his  home; 
it  was  dear  to  him  in  every  tile  and  stick — its  cumbrous 
furniture  and  lowering,  oppressive  spaces  to  him  the  symbol- 
ism of  comfort  and  quiet.  It  was  not  want  of  hospitality  that 
made  him  neglect  to  ask  Lewnes  home.  But  hospitality  was 
with  Monypenny  a  formal,  sacred  rite — he  would  not  cas- 
ually violate  the  sanctities  of  his  home  for  an  unappreciative 
babbler  and  vulgarity-monger  like  the  Alderman.  He  loved  to 
give  splendid,  sombre  feasts,  when  wax-candles  lit  up  his  ma- 
hogany, and  borough  dignitaries  and  their  wives  solemnly 
ate  and  drank  the  most  excellent  of  meats  and  wines.  His 
dinners  had  a  reputation  in  proportion  to  their  rarity.  He 
never  asked  a  friend  to  "drop  in"  for  any  meal ;  he  entertained 
royally  or  he  ate  alone — with  no  lack  of  state  in  that,  either. 

Tonight  he  stole  quietly  upstairs,  as  if  respecting  the  si- 
lence of  the  house.  His  bedroom  was  in  front,  and  from  the 
uncurtained  windows  he  could  look  down  on  Marlingate  as 
it  lay  a  blot  of  darkness  under  the  stars.  He  was  not  sleepy; 
indeed  he  was  a  man  who  always  seemed  able  to  do  with  a 
very  small  amount  of  sleep,  and  often  spent  a  night  out  of 
bed,  either  working  at  the  town's  business  or  soaring  rest- 
lessly among  his  dreams. 

For  in  the  sacred  privacies  of  his  house,  Monypenny  al- 
lowed himself  to  dream.  His  dreams  were  at  once  the  fruit 
and  forcing-bed  of  his  activities.  Sitting  at  his  window  he 
would  apocalypse  that  sleeping  huddle  of  roofs  and  streets. 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE        23 

Fish  Street  and  the  High  Street  would  broaden  into  two 
streaming  thoroughfares  and  flow  seawards  through  palaces, 
thronged  with  princely  feet.  A  string  of  lights  would  sweep 
along  the  Marine  Parade,  where  the  old  Town  Wall  had  been, 
up-town  houses  would  spark  his  bare  lands  with  shining  win- 
dows, carriages  would  drive  up  to  their  doors,  while  everywhere 
music  tinkled  of  revelry.  The  tamarisk  thickets  of  the  Wil- 
derness would  trim  themselves  into  the  walks  and  beds  and 
ponds  of  the  Municipal  Park.  .  .  .  The  whole  thing  would 
glow  and  glitter  and  triumph  in  Monypenny's  brain,  with 
behind  it  all  a  strange  aching  sense  of  the  unsatisfied,  of  in- 
adequacy even,  of  fulfilment,  of  a  reaching  out  beyond  hope 
and  desire,  which  salted  these  dreams  with  a  torment  all  their 
own,  and  made  him  hurry  back  to  refuge  in  the  actual. 

He  sat  down  by  the  window,  and  leaned  his  elbow  on  the 
sill.  Gradually  the  sky  behind  All  Holland  Hill  was  filming 
with  the  moonrise,  and  at  last  the  November  moon  came  up 
round  and  dim,  pouring  a  honeycomb  of  light  into  the  chinked 
and  creviced  town.  Out  across  the  sea  spread  a  mysterious 
track  that  swamped  the  fisher-lights  dipping  and  winking  off 
the  Gringer.  The  sea  sent  up  a  solemn  sigh,  which  mingled 
with  the  sigh  of  the  tamarisks  in  the  Wilderness. 

The  southwest  gale  was  rising;  as  yet  it  seemed  far  off, 
moaning  behind  the  westward  jut  of  Cuckoo  Hill.  Now  and 
then  it  came  ruffling  over  the  town,  with  stormy  rags  of  cloud, 
breathing  strange  vagrant  dreams  into  the  sleep  of  Marlingate. 
It  seemed  to  Monypenny  as  if  the  wind  linked  up  the  woods 
and  the  sea — it  joined  their  sighings,  it  mixed  their  savours, 
it  seemed  to  proclaim  the  alliance  of  these  two  against  the 
town. 

§7 

Becket  came  down  the  following  Thursday,  and  Mony- 
penny met  him  at  the  station  in  a  hackney  carriage.  There 
was  a  fog  on.  the  town,  a  clammy  muffle  of  white,  salt  to  the 


24  TAMARISK  TOWN 

lips.  The  houses  between  which  they  drove  were  almost  in- 
visible, dim  arabesques  on  the  prevailing  whiteness.  It  de- 
pressed and  chilled  Becket;  he  preferred  the  sooty  opacities 
of  a  London  fog  to  this,  and  he  remarked  irritably  to  Mony- 
penny  that  they  could  never  expect  to  bring  fashion  to  a 
town  that  reeked  so  powerfully  of  fish. 

Monypenny  sneered.     "We'll  call  it  ozone." 

They  stopped  before  a  grey  looming  space. 

"This  is  the  house." 

Becket  was  still  further  depressed.  He  had  expected 
Monypenny's  house  to  be  severely  reclused  in  his  estates,  ap- 
proached by  a  mile-long  avenue,  perhaps.  This  inn-like  build- 
ing, cheek  by  jowl  with  a  rackety  High  Street,  struck  him  as 
undignified,  even  a  little  indecent.  Once  again  he  began  to  ask 
himself  where  all  his  truck  was  leading  him.  Why  had  he 
mixed  himself  up  with  the  affairs  of  this  dirty  fishing-bor- 
ough? In  his  heart  he  murmured  against  Monypenny,  who 
he  felt  had  tricked  him.  He  must  have  been  bubbled  some- 
how, or  he  would  never  have  let  himself  in  for  this  foolish  en- 
terprise. That  he  was  wholly  committed  he  had  not  doubted 
since  arriving  at  Marlingate,  though  until  that  moment  he 
had  told  himself  that  the  visit  was  only  a  preliminary  survey. 
There  was  something  in  Monypenny's  calm  assumption  that 
the  affair  was  settled  which  paralysed  Becket  while  it  goaded 
him. 

However,  he  was  a  little  appeased  by  the  inside  of  the 
house.  Though  the  dark  furniture  and  wide  dreary  rooms 
oppressed  him,  they  also  gave  him  a  reassurance  of  solidity. 
Outside  Gun  Garden  House  might  lie  faint  on  the  vision  as 
a  grey  fog-castle,  but  inside  it  was  full  of  good  substantial 
things — such  as  mahogany  furniture,  a  respectful  manservant 
who  valeted  one  to  perfection,  and  a  most  excellent  dinner, 
with  wine  that  lifted  one  back  into  lost  enthusiasm. 

During  dinner  Monypenny  talked  of  indifferent  things.  His 
reply  to  Becket's  criticism  of  the  town-smell  had  been  his  only 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE        25 

reference  to  the  purpose  of  the  latter's  visit.  Sitting  over  his 
port  and  walnuts,  his  head  and  shoulders  scarcely  more  dim 
in  the  reflection  of  the  table-top  than  against  the  massing 
shadows  of  the  room,  he  might  have  been  some  stately 
courteous  uncle  of  Becket's,  solemnly  sipping  wine  and  talk- 
ing politics  of  a  mellowness  in  keeping  with  its  vintage.  There 
was  nothing  revolutionary  about  Monypenny's  liberalism,  and 
he  had  none  of  the  impetuosities  of  catch-words  of  the 
young  men  of  his  party.  He  approved  of  reform,  he  was  in 
favor  of  progress,  and  he  admired  Gladstone — that  was  all. 
He  spoke  of  books,  too,  but  not  so  much,  for  he  had  read 
more  deeply,  though  perhaps  not  more  widely,  than  Becket. 
Carlyle  was  his  favorite  author,  and  he  had  never  heard  of 
Mrs.  Henry  Wood. 

After  dinner  they  went  into  Monypenny's  study.  The  book- 
lined  walls  impressed  Becket,  also  the  massive  writing-table 
covered  with  papers  and  plans  and  correspondence.  Why  this 
last  should  have  impressed  him  it  would  be  hard  to  say,  for 
it  was  not  more  cumbered  than  his  own.  But  somehow  Moay- 
penny's  business  had  a  uniqueness,  in  the  phrase  of  the  time 
an  "air"  about  it  which  the  humdrum  traffic  of  a  city  mer- 
chant could  not  hope  to  imitate.  Monypenny  pulled  two 
leather  arm-chairs  up  to  the  fire  and  opened  a  box  of  cigars. 

"There's  a  young  architect  fellow  coming  down  here  to- 
morrow— he'll  look  over  the  place  with  us,  and  give  us  ex- 
pert advice." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"His  name  is  Figg,  Decimus  Figg,  and  he  won  the  Bulver- 
hythe  corporation's  prize  for  a  Town  Hall.  I  never  heard 
of  him  till  I  was  over  there  a  few  weeks  ago,  but  I  saw  his 
design,  and  some  other  things  he's  done,  and  I  said  to  my- 
self 'That's  our  man.' " 

"But  don't  you  think  we  ought  to  have  someone  of  more 
experience  and  reputation?" 

"I'd  rather  have  talent  and  enthusiasm." 


26  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"Are  you  sure  he's  got  those?" 

"Positive.  I  looked  him  up  when  I  was  in  town,  and  he 
seems  exactly  the  right  man  to  have.  He's  young  and  he's 
keen  as  mustard.  I  don't  set  all  that  store  on  experience — 
for  one  thing  it's  dear,  and  for  another  it  has  a  clogging  ef- 
fect on  initiative.  What  we  want  for  this  town  is  young  and 
energetic  people  who  won't  be  frightened  of  new  ideas." 

Becket  was  pleased.  He  was  forty-five,  with  gouty  ten- 
dencies and  that  deep  encrustation  of  precedent  which  is 
called  experience,  and  he  liked  to  think  that  Monypenny  in- 
cluded him  with  the  young  and  ardent  spirits  who  were  to 
build  the  town. 

"Then  tomorrow  you  mean  to  have  a  kind  of  preliminary 
survey?" 

"Yes.  You  and  I,  Figg  and  the  Town  Committee.  We'll 
go  round  the  whole  borough,  and  then  you'll  see  exactly  what 
wants  doing.  I'll  leave  my  own  land  till  afterwards.  We 
won't  start  on  that  till  the  Parade  is  finished." 

"What  kind  of  land's  yours?" 

"Mostly  woodland,  though  I've  one  or  two  farms  let  on 
short  leases.  It's  not  the  usual  kind  of  'gentleman's  es- 
tate,' you  know.  My  father  scraped  it  up  piecemeal,  and  this 
house  has  no  real  connection  with  it — just  a  converted  tav- 
ern. 'The  French  Gun'  it  used  to  be — a  posting-house 
with  pleasure-gardens,  hence  the  name.  There  are  names  of 
French  origin  all  over  the  town;  since  they  were  continually 
in  the  place  at  one  time,  either  sacking  or  smuggling — you 
often  meet  some  mess  of  a  French  word  in  the  fishermen's 
dialect.  .  .  ." 

Becket  was  not  listening,  for  abruptly  and  without  con- 
text he  had  come  upon  the  secret  of  that  unfriendliness  of  Gun 
Garden  House,  which  he  had  never  quite  lost  sight  of  in 
spite  of  its  conciliations.  It  wanted  a  woman.  He  realised 
now  that  what  had  repelled  him  was  the  male  element  in  its 
comfort.  Comfort,  with  him,  was  essentially  feminine;  his 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE        27 

house  was  full  of  the  knick-knacks  his  wife  had  loved,  uphol- 
stered with  plush,  crowded  with  the  frailities  of  flower-stands 
and  occasional  tables.  There  was  something  alien  in  this  solid 
lack  of  ornament,  this  leather  upholstery,  these  bare  or  book- 
ish walls.  His  wife  had  been  dead  only  two  years,  and  he 
sighed  deeply.  He  became  aware  that  Monypenny  was 
watching  him. 

"I  was  thinking  I'd  bring  my  children  down  here  next 
summer,"  he  said  uneasily.  "I  suppose  there's  a  decent  house 
I  could  take?" 

"Several.  Most  of  the  houses  in  the  town  itself  are  small, 
but  there  are  some  good  ones  up  on  the  Coney  Banks." 

"I  don't  want  anything  very  large — only  four  children  and 

a  governess "  He  sighed  deeply  again.  "I  wish  you  could 

have  met  my  wife." 

Monypenny  mumbled  something  conventionally  polite. 

"She  was  a  wonderful  woman,"  continued  the  widower, 
"most  wonderful  brains.  A  good  woman,  too  ...  a  saint." 
He  shook  his  head  sorrowfully.  "When  I  think  of  my  moth- 
erless children.  .  ." 

"You  must  find  them  a  great  trouble,"  said  Monypenny 
naively. 

"Er — responsibility,"  corrected  Becket.  "There  are  two 
boys  and  two  girls.  Now  Arthur,  the  eldest  ..." 

Monypenny  hoped  that  Becket  would  see  the  unprofitable- 
ness of  making  sentimental  domestic  confidences  to  a  bach- 
elor, who  fathered  a  corporation.  But  he  hoped  too  much. 
For  the  rest  of  the  evening  Becket  talked  about  his  children 
and  his  dead  wife — sentimentally,  intimately,  untiringly. 

§8 

The  next  day  the  fog  had  gone.  Marlingate  was  bathing 
in  a  flood  of  tremulous,  aqueous  beauty — a  pastel  of  greens 


28  TAMARISK  TOWN 

and  blues  and  delicate  flushing  pinks,  streamed  over  with 
crystalline  light. 

Bit  by  bit,  Becket  was  becoming  reconciled  to  his  sur- 
roundings. Gun  Garden  House  had  placated  him,  and  now  the 
town  did  so.  Monypenny's  plans  for  it  looked  less  of  a 
"Stand  and  deliver"  to  fate.  The  air  was  delicious — like 
a  spring  morning  after  yesterday's  November — and  the  town 
itself,  cupped  in  green  hills,  and  faintly  smudged  with  the 
vapour  of  its  activity,  had  a  look  both  dreamlike  and  secure. 
Picturesque,  Becket  called  it,  and  picturesqueness  was  fash- 
ionable. Marlingate  needed  only  advertisement  and  recom- 
mendation to  make  it  popular.  It  had  more  natural  advan- 
tages than  either  Ramsgate  or  Brighton,  and  when  all  the  im- 
provements were  made  .  .  . 

He  felt  he  could  easily  persuade  his  wife's  people  to  come. 
He  would  begin  with  the  Wiltshire  Hurdicotts,  and  they  would 
spread  his  recommendation  to  Graveley,  and  perhaps  through 
Graveley  he  might  net  the  Duke.  Becket's  chest  expanded 
when  he  thought  of  how  he  would  rise  in  the  Hurdicott  opin- 
ion through  this  venture  of  his.  Poor  Emma's  family  had 
plainly  thought  she  was  throwing  herself  away  when  she 
accepted  his  hand.  Now  when  they  saw  him  the  patron  and 
financier  of  a  fashionable  resort  .  .  . 

At  breakfast  the  placating  process  was  complete,  for  he 
found  himself  actually  well  pleased  with  Monypenny.  The 
young  man  had  risen  early,  and  gone  for  a  windy  walk  on 
Cuckoo  Hill.  He  came  in  with  an  unusual  ruddiness  of  cheek 
and  gamesomeness  of  eye.  For  the  first  time  he  looked  heart- 
ily and  aggressively  young.  Becket  found  himself  uncle  in- 
stead of  nephew  that  morning.  With  a  tolerant  smile  he 
watched  Monypenny  eat  an  enormous  breakfast,  play  with 
the  cat,  and  ignore  the  daily  paper  for  a  new  number  of  the 
"Tale  of  Two  Cities,"  which  had  just  come  up  from  the  book- 
seller. 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE        29 

"Great  man — Boz,"  he  said,  as  last  night  he  had  said, 
"Great  man — Gladstone." 

Then  gradually  the  young  mood  cooled  and  saddened.  He 
shut  himself  into  his  study  with  a  mass  of  estate-accounts, 
and  when  he  came  out  he  was  once  more  the  eager,  author- 
itative man  of  business,  the  landowner,  the  Alderman,  Mony- 
penny  of  Marlingate. 

He  set  off  with  Becket  for  the  Town  Hall,  where  they  were 
to  meet  the  Committee  and  Decimus  Figg.  The  latter  had 
arrived,  and  was  waiting  for  them — a  tall,  pallid  youth,  rather 
spotty  and  grimy.  He  had  been  travelling  since  seven  o'clock 
that  morning,  and  was,  when  they  found  him,  engaged  in  re- 
moving the  traces  of  the  Southeastern  from  his  face  by  the 
doubtful  means  of  his  saliva  and  a  dirty  handkerchief.  Onct 
again  Becket 's  spirits  sank;  why  would  Monypenny  insist  or« 
using  such  hopelessly  raw  material? 

Figg's  conversation  depressed  him  still  further. 

"Why  did  you  ask  me  to  meet  you  here?"  he  exclaimed 
melodramatically.  "Was  it  so  that  at  the  outset  of  my  task 
you  might  convince  me  of  my  incapacity  to  improve  on  this?" 
— and  he  waved  his  arm  towards  the  delicate  groining. 

"I  want  you  particularly  to  notice  the  Town  Hall,"  said 
Monypenny  quietly,  "as  it  is  the  best  thing  we  have  in  the 
town,  and  therefore  the  model  we  must  always  keep  before 
us." 

Becket  understood  now  why  Monypenny  had  chosen  his 
architect  raw. 

The  rest  of  the  Town  Committee  began  to  arrive,  and  were 
introduced  to  Becket.  On  the  whole  they  impressed  him  as 
decidedly  middle-class,  though  he  admired  the  mild  and  state- 
ly Pelham  with  his  smooth  grandiloquence.  Lusted,  Lewnes 
and  Vidler  were  of  course  mere  tradesmen,  and  though  Breeds 
and  Wastel  were  something  better,  they  hopelessly  lacked  dis- 
tinction. It  struck  him  that  Monypenny  was  the  vital  spark 
of  a  business  that  without  him  was  only  trifling  and  sordid — 


30  TAMARISK  TOWN 

he  was  the  spirit  of  that  to  which  the  others  provided  a 
clumsy,  rather  unclean  body.  They  were  the  material  part, 
by  means  of  which  he  worked,  to  which  he  lent  a  glorifying 
vitality — so  that  when  the  little  procession  set  out  from  the 
Town  Hall,  Becket,  in  spite  of  his  qualms,  had  a  feeling  as  of 
the  initiation  of  some  solemn  and  exalted  enterprise. 


§9 

They  went  first  of  all  to  the  Coney  Banks — the  lower  slopes 
of  Cuckoo  Hill  just  above  the  town,  where  rabbit-hunt- 
ing as  a  systematised  sport  had  flourished  in  forgotten  days. 
Here,  over  the  old  warrens,  had  been  raised  a  series  of  ter- 
races, one  above  the  other,  varying  architecturally  from  the 
squat  seventeenth-century  houses  just  above  the  church,  with 
.their  huge  crumpled  roofs  and  glow  of  tiles,  to  the  latest  cre- 
ations of  the  House  of  Lusted,  four  storeys  high,  with  two 
rooms  on  each  floor,  and  wedge-like  frontages  tarred  from  at- 
tic to  foundation. 

It  was  here  that  the  drawbacks  of  Decimus  Figg  became 
apparent  to  the  Town  Committee.  Councillor  Lusted,  as  was 
fitting,  assumed  the  office  of  spokesman  on  the  Coney  Banks. 

"This  is  what  we  look  upon  as  one  of  the  chief  'letting' 
districts  of  the  town.  I'm  not  speaking  of  those  cottages  down 
by  the  schoolhouse,  but  these  terraces  we've  got  up  here.  They 
look  a  bit  blocky  just  at  present,  but  when  we've  made  'em 
tight  and  regular,  and  maybe  put  in  an  extra  house  or  two — 

"House!"  exclaimed  Figg.  "D'you  call  these  houses?  I 
call  them  Aldermen — look  at  their  stomachs!" 

He  waved  his  gaunt,  cuffless  arm  at  Lusted's  idea  of  an 
"elegant  parlour  window."  The  Town  Committee  glanced 
furiously  at  their  waistcoats.  Only  Monypenny  looked  un- 
ruffled. 

"Well,  I  suppose  they  are  a  bit  pot-bellied,"  he  said  to 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE        31 

"Some  of  'em  have  even  got  cocked  hats,"  and  the  archi- 
tect pointed  to  one  or  two  attempts  of  Lusted's  at  a  classical 
style. 

Monypenny  smiled — he  even  laughed,  which  the  Commit- 
tee had  rarely  seen  him  do. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  the  Aldermanic  type  isn't  rather  ap- 
propriate to  the  town.  Anyhow,  Figg,  I  like  that  tarring.  You 
get  it  again  down  by  the  Stade — keeps  out  the  weather, 
you  know,  and  at  the  same  time  strikes  an  individual  note  in 
domestic  architecture.  ..." 

He  walked  on  beside  Figg,  and  seemed  almost  to  forget  the 
others.  He  was  certainly  showing  this  mangy  architect  a 
respect  he  had  never  shown  his  more  prosperous  associates. 
At  the  same  time  Figg  was  not,  any  more  than  the  others, 
leading  Monypenny.  Whereas  the  Town  Committee  would 
have  deferred  to  him  in  architectural  matters  and  treated  him 
otherwise  as  an  inferior,  Monypenny  treated  him  as  an  equal 
and  at  the  same  time  boldly  criticised  his  ideas.  "We  mustn't 
be  too  Greek,  you  know,"  he  said  when  they  were  discussing 
the  proposed  Assembly  Room.  "The  classic  is  the  style  for 
Marlingate,  when  we're  not  simply  domestic.  But  in  my  opin- 
ion we  get  all  our  best  effects  from  this  sort  of  thing "  and 

he  pointed  to  the  jumbled  High  Street  houses. 

They  crossed  the  High  Street,  and  taking  a  foot-path 
through  the  Wilderness  came  to  the  market-place.  This  was 
the  suggested  site  for  the  Town  Park,  stretching  across  the 
neck  of  Marlingate,  between  it  and  the  open  weald.  A  bare 
piece  of  ground,  stockaded  with  sheep-pens,  it  had  but  little 
to  say  of  its  future,  except  where,  up  at  the  Slough  pool,  some 
tamarisks  wove  a  misty  green  ring  round  the  sky-filled  water. 

The  Slough  was  the  origin  of  the  Borough's  water-supply. 
Thrice  a  week  the  sluice-gates  were  opened  and  its  waters 
overflowed  into  the  Gut's  Mouth  Brook,  which  was  swollen 
from  a  dribble  over  weedy  stones  into  a  full-flushed  torrent 
at  which  the  inhabitants  of  Marlingate,  duly  roused  by  a 


32  TAMARISK  TOWN 

horn,  could  fill  their  household  vessels.  The  process  was  sim- 
plicity itself,  but  as  Monypenny  explained  to  Figg  might  seem 
a  trifle  primitive  to  visitors  accustomed  to  London's  more 
sophisticated  ways.  Hence  the  proposed  waterworks  on  the 
Totty  Lands  behind  the  town. 

Three  roads  met  at  the  southeast  corner  of  the  market- 
place— Fish  Street,  leading  to  the  sea;  Rye  Lane,  twisting  up 
through  woods  to  the  meadowed,  chalky  scarp  of  the  weald; 
and  a  cobbled  track  leading  to  a  terrace  on  All  Holland  Hill — 
the  simple  rival  of  the  multiple  Coney  Banks,  just  a  line  of 
houses,  stuccoed  and  white,  cutting  the  hillside.  This  ter- 
race, known  as  Mount  Idle,  was  to  be  ignored  in  the  borough 
survey,  for  it  was  the  property  of  Councillor  Elphee,  who 
would  not  let  so  much  as  a  gable  be  added  to  it. 

The  Town  Committee  turned  into  Fish  Street,  the  main 
thoroughfare  of  the  Fishermen's  quarter.  Marlingate  was 
roughly  divided  by  the  Gut's  Mouth  Brook  into  the  "Fisher- 
men's quarter"  and  the  "Town's  quarter,"  and  these  two  had 
always  kept  distinct  and  apart.  The  dwellers  in  the  High 
Street  and  the  Coney  Banks  and  the  west  end  of  the  Sea 
Front  looked  on  the  fishermen  as  an  alien  race,  with  whom 
they  had  nothing  in  common.  The  fishermen  for  their  part 
despised  the  tradespeople  and  residents,  who,  they  felt,  were 
remote  from  the  real  business  of  the  town.  They  had  indeed 
done  much  to  make  themselves  the  alien  tribe  they  were  con- 
sidered "away  west."  They  had  intermarried  to  such  an  ex- 
tent that  there  was  a  definite  type  among  them — brown  skin, 
sturdy  limbs,  dark  eyes,  a  straight  nose,  and  curly  hair,  very 
different  from  the  pale,  mixed,  shifting  breed  of  the  High 
Street  Ward.  They  spoke  their  own  dialect,  had  their  own 
particular  tradesmen,  kept  their  own  quarters;  even  the  money- 
makers among  them  retired  not  to  the  Coney  Banks  but  to 
their  own  east-end  Mount  Idle. 

The  Town  Committee  walked  single  file — for  the  tall  pave- 
ments were  narrower  than  in  the  High  Street,  sometimes  not 


33 

more  than  a  ledge  skirting  the  houses — down  to  the  Stade. 
This  huddle  of  tarred  sheds  and  fishermen's  stores  choked  up 
the  end  of  Fish  Street,  hiding  the  sea.  It  smelt  strongly  of 
tar  and  seaweed  and  drying  nets,  and  beyond  it  the  black- 
hulled  fishing-boats  lay  on  the  beach,  waiting  for  the  turn 
of  the  tide. 

"We  shan't  do  anything  to  speak  of  in  these  parts,"  said 
Monypenny  to  Figg;  "I  merely  wanted  you  to  get  a  general 
idea  of  the  town.  Our  improvements  must  be  in  keeping  with 
the  character  of  the  place." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Figg,  "we  shall  have  to  put  colour  be- 
fore form." 

Monypenny  nodded. 

"Quite  so — the  difficulty  is  the  Parade." 

"Must  you  have  one?"  Figg  asked  brutally. 

The  Town  Committee  shuddered. 

"We  must  have  one,  of  course,"  said  Monypenny,  "but  it 
will  be  a  difficult  matter.  You  see,  the  point  of  the  whole 
thing  is — we  want  to  improve  this  town;  we  don't  want  just 
to  add  to  it,  to  give  it  certain  conventional  features;  we  want 
to  improve  it." 

"You're  an  optimist,"  said  Figg;  "you're  asking  me  to  go 
one  better  than  the  old  folk  who  planted  these  streets.  It's 
like  copying  roses  in  wax." 

The  Town  Committee  were  growing  restive,  and  at  this 
stage  Lewnes  pushed  forward. 

"Can't  you  give  us  something  like  the  Steyn?" 

Pelham  murmured  that  "the  moorish  style  was  always  gen- 
teel." 

"But  the  Gothic  is  becoming  fashionable  again,"  said 
Becket. 

They  moved  on,  leaving  the  Stade  for  the  little  sea-front 
that  ran  along  the  shore  from  the  great  cliff-buttress  of  All 
Holland  Hill  to  the  smooth  green  spread  of  Cuckoo  Hill  in  the 
west.  Below  Cuckoo  Hill,  wedged  between  town  and  sea,  was 


34  TAMARISK  TOWN 

the  America  Ground,  a  brown  lumpy  patch  of  tents,  sheds,  and 
converted  hulls,  with  grey  spines  of  smoke  ascending  from 
ramshackle  chimneys  and  gipsy-fires.  This  would  have  to  be 
got  rid  of,  and  till  it  was  gone  there  was  no  good  planning 
the  Marine  Gardens  which  had  begun  to  flower  in  Mony- 
penny's  mind.  The  immediate  concern  was  the  Parade.  At 
present  all  there  was  of  it  was  a  rough,  tide-eaten  dyke,  with 
grass  and  sea-pink  between  the  stones,  and  a  spinney  of  tam- 
arisks struggling  under  the  old  Town  Wall  which  shut  off  the 
rest  of  Marlingate.  This  wall  had  crumbled  and  fallen  in 
places;  in  others  it  had  been  quaintly  assimilated  by  some 
dwelling — a  little  poke-roofed  house  squatting  ruddily  on  its 
yellowish-grey,  or  a  sudden  crop  of  tiling  and  chimneys 
which,  with  a  pierced  window  or  two,  spoke  of  a  house  that 
had  taken  its  strength  for  frontage. 

The  artist  in  Figg  revolted  from  the  thought  of  convert- 
ing this  wild  growth  of  wall  and  town  into  a  conventional 
Marine  Parade.  But  he  had  not  come  to  Marlingate  to  be  an 
artist — indeed  he  was  grateful  for  the  limited  scope  allowed 
him  by  Monypenny.  He  had  expected  a  demand  for  a  rococo 
reconstruction,  and  here  at  least  was  a  man  who,  while  he  in- 
sisted on  "improvement,"  could  contemplate  a  scheme  which 
did  not  include  domes  and  balconies. 

Monypenny  rejected  Figg's  proposal  to  "restore"  the  sea- 
front — indeed  the  Committee  would  not  have  borne  it.  They 
came  clustering  round  Monypenny,  fearful  lest  he  should  sac- 
rifice to  the  picturesque.  They  pointed  out  that  there  were 
enough  romantic  corners  in  the  town  to  satisfy  any  visitors 
who  cared  for  such  things,  that  the  Town  Wall  was  unsafe, 
and — learning  their  lesson  from  Monypenny — unhygienic. 

But  he  had  never  thought  of  keeping  the  sea-front  as  it  was. 
The  town  of  his  dreams  was  typified  by  this  Marine  Parade, 
sweeping  grandly  east  and  west  from  hill  to  hill — though 
Monypenny's  Parade  had  a  remote  crystalline  beauty  which 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE        35 

no  Town  Committee  could  imagine  and  no  architect  could  de- 
sign. 

It  was  decided  to  take  down  the  old  wall,  build  houses,  an 
Assembly  Room  and  an  Arcade.  Shops,  in  spite  of  some  ma- 
noeuvring of  Lewnes's,  were  to  be  rigorously  excluded. 

Having  roughly  planned  out  the  idea,  the  Town  Commit- 
tee turned  homewards  up  the  High  Street.  Monypenny  had 
invited  everyone  to  dinner  at  Gun  Garden  House. 


§10 

That  summer  broke  on  Marlingate  like  a  sunrise.  It  was 
the  beginning  of  its  greatness.  The  town  was  in  an  odd, 
jumbled  state.  The  Parade  was  a  mass  of  earth  and  rub- 
ble, with  great  blocks  brought  by  railway  from  the  north, 
and  heaps  of  cement  dustily  discharged  from  the  little  black 
ships  that  bumped  round  the  Gringer  from  the  London  River. 
At  the  last  minute  the  Town  Committee  had  cleared  a  space 
of  beach  for  the  digging  and  bathing,  and  hoped  piously  that 
the  wind  would  blow  the  workmen's  back-chat  away  from 
the  visitors. 

Up  on  the  Totty  Lands  the  water-works  were  now  spoiling 
the  woods  as  the  Parade  spoiled  the  sea.  Both  sets  of  work- 
men camped  on  the  America  Ground,  which  was  having  a 
season  of  its  own,  with  money  flowing  into  the  gin-shops,  and 
a  big  demand  for  house-property  in  the  shape  of  sack-cloth 
tents  and  old  boats.  The  Town  Committee  felt  unequal  to 
tackling  it  during  its  present  boom — they  would  wait  till  the 
navvies  were  out  of  Marlingate,  and  then  approach  the  Com- 
mission of  Woods  and  Forests.  Meantime  they  hoped  it 
would  strike  visitors  as  Romantic. 

People  began  to  arrive  towards  the  middle  of  June.  There 
had  always  been  summer  visitors  at  Marlingate,  on  account  of 
the  climate  and  bathing,  but  they  had  been  of  the  pioneer,  pic- 
nic kind.  Now  something  better  was  hoped  and  prepared  for. 


36  TAMARISK  TOWN 

The  Town  Committee  had  worked  desperately  to  make  the 
place  known.  It  was  Monypenny  who  had  first  been  struck 
with  the  idea  of  using  the  Railway  for  advertising  purposes. 
He  persuaded  the  Corporation  to  have  placards  at  London 
Bridge  station,  and  one  or  two  big  places  on  the  way  down, 
setting  forth  the  attractions  of  Marlingate — "unrivalled  sea- 
bathing, picturesque  scenery,  elegant  and  comfortable  lodg- 
ings." 

For  the  regulation  of  these  last  he  established  a  Corpora- 
tion Register,  whereon  were  entered  the  names  of  all  lodg- 
ing-house keepers  who  were  willing  to  submit  their  premises 
to  the  inspection  of  a  specially  formed  sub-committee.  Lodg- 
ings in  Marlingate  therefore  had  the  personal  voucher  of  the 
Corporation,  which  became  directly  responsible  for  the  com- 
fort of  the  visitors.  At  first  bookings  were  slow,  but  August 
brought  an  increase.  The  first  visitors  had  gone  home  and 
were  recommending  the  place.  Hugo  Becket  had  also  per- 
suaded a  few  good  people  to  come  down — not  the  Duke,  alas! 
He  went,  as  usual,  to  Brighton  and  thence  to  Homburg,  but 
good  people  nevertheless,  who  availed  themselves  in  a  pleas- 
ant, well-bred  way  of  the  few  opportunities  provided  for 
spending  money,  who  gave  the  beach  a  sprinkling  of  London 
style,  and  finally  set  the  seal  on  their  good-breeding  by  go- 
ing home  well  pleased,  and  recommending  Marlingate  to  their 
friends. 

This  was  what  Monypenny  had  hoped  for  and  the  line 
along  which  he  had  planned.  Marlingate  was  just  such  a 
place  as  would  appeal  to  those  for  whom  Brighton  was  too 
noisy  and  too  stale.  He  fought  that  element  in  the  Council 
which  looked  on  Brighton  as  the  pattern  and  ideal.  Mony- 
penny's  town  was  a  cross  between  Brighton  and  the  Marlin- 
gate of  bygone  years.  He  would  have  the  Parade,  the  Assem- 
bly Room,  and  eventually  the  Municipal  Park,  without  which 
no  respectable  watering-place  could  hold  up  its  head — but  he 
would  also  keep  the  old  red  and  black  streets,  the  green  slope 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE        37 

of  the  hills,  the  mystery  of  woods  and  weald;  they  should  all 
be  part  of  the  new  Marlingate,  as  they  had  been  part  of  the 
old. 

He  was  glad  that  Figg  had  realised  this.  The  plans  for 
the  improvements  had  come  down,  soaked  in  the  Monypenny 
idea.  Figg  had  seen  the  impossibility  of  constructing  a  Parade 
that  should  be  in  keeping  with  the  welded  mass  of  Marlin- 
gate— its  twist  of  streets  and  bristle  of  gables,  its  tumble  of 
moss-grown  roofs,  its  riot  of  sea-worn  colours.  Therefore, 
unable  to  blend,  he  had  jumped  boldly  at  contrast.  His  par- 
ade was  classic  in  the  purest  style — one  long,  low,  white  front- 
age— and  the  Assembly  Room  was  a  Greek  temple,  its  col- 
umned portico  crowned  by  an  entablature  and  pediment. 
Monypenny  had  both  approved  his  plans  and  fearlessly  crit- 
icised them.  His  knowledge  of  architecture  was  limited,  his 
knowledge  of  the  town  he  wanted,  absolute.  The  Council  had 
carped  both  at  the  plans  and  the  improvements — they  bab- 
bled of  areas  and  balconies;  Lewnes  thought  a  "nice  dome" 
would  give  the  Assembly  Room  a  conspicuousness  it  lacked  in 
its  present  design.  Lusted  scoffed  at  Figg's  ignorance  of 
modern  styles — not  a  bow-window  on  the  Parade.  But  Pel- 
ham  was  on  Monypenny's  side,  and  moreover  his  own  weight 
was  enough  to  carry  him  through  even  a  heavier  opposition. 
It  was  he  who  owned  the  land  which,  developed  into  an  ar- 
istocratic residential  district,  should  set  the  crown  on  Marlin- 
gate; it  was  he  who  indirectly  swayed  the  town's  finances 
through  the  riches  of  Becket — there  was,  besides,  a  general 
vague  respect  for  his  "ideas,"  an  odd  deference  to  his  preco- 
cious efficiency.  In  short  it  was  an  example  of  the  ignored, 
denied,  but  universal  homage  to  Brains.  Monypenny  had  bet- 
ter if  younger  brains  than  anyone  on  the  Borough  Council, 
and  the  Council  was  forced,  in  the  spirit  if  not  in  the  letter,  to 
acknowledge  it. 

So  things  in  general  were  shaping  as  he  wished.  The  Maid- 
enhood Inn,  the  Crown,  and  the  New  Moon — the  three  good 


38  TAMARISK  TOWN 

inns  of  the  place — were  full,  without  any  crowding  or  vulgar- 
ity, of  visitors  of  the  better  sort.  Others,  equally  estimable, 
but  with  larger  families  or  smaller  purses,  had  lodgings  in 
different  parts  of  the  town.  In  the  morning  they  sat  on  the 
beach,  now  professionally  equipped  with  bathing  machines  and 
bathing  women,  or  walked  on  the  small  available  bit  of  Par- 
ade. They  were  never  noisy,  never  promiscuous,  always  fresh 
and  well  dressed.  They  spent  moderately  in  the  toy-shops  and 
the  library,  and  in  the  afternoon  banded  themselves  into  dis- 
creet excursions  to  such  spots  as  Old  Rumble,  the  Gringer,  the 
Stussels,  or  Spitalman's  Down.  For  these  Bond  of  the  Li- 
brary had  prepared  a  Guide  Book,  full  of  garlanded  informa- 
tion. In  the  evening  there  would  be  card-parties  and  con- 
certs in  the  big  hall  of  the  Maidenhood,  with  now  and  then  a 
small,  select  dance. 

It  was  all  as  he  would  have  it — graceful,  fashionable,  po- 
lite, not  unmindful  of  beauty.  Standing  on  the  first'  blocks 
of  the  Parade,  staring  down  at  the  beach  gay  with  brightly 
coloured  shawls  and  parasols — or  from  his  window  at  Gun 
Garden  House  watching  the  family  excursions  jolt  up  through 
the  Warriors'  Gate  in  hired  flies  and  gigs — or  in  the  evening 
presiding  at  some  discreetly  gay  reunion  at  the  Maidenhood 
— he  would  experience  a  gratifying,  almost  paternal  thrill. 
He  felt  as  if  these  people,  enjoying  themselves  in  Marlingate, 
were  his  children,  whose  gambols  were  due  to  his  indulgence, 
who  owed  him  their  delight,  even  their  being.  He  beamed  on 
them,  and  blessed  them  in  his  heart. 

§" 

Towards  the  middle  of  July,  Becket's  family  came  down  to 
a  long  black  slice  of  a  house  on  the  Coney  Banks.  Mony- 
penny  was  introduced  to  them  a  fortnight  later  when  Becket 
arrived  for  his  summer  holiday,  and  recognized  them  as  a 
party  he  had  often  watched  in  his  paternal  gloatings — two 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE        39 

girls  and  two  boys,  shepherded  by  a  very  immature-looking 
governess.  Becket  was  inclined  to  sentimentalise  over  them, 
to  see  in  their  farthing  faces  a  glimpse  of  the  vanished  Emma 
Hurdicott. 

"It's  a  heavy  task,"  he  murmured,  "to  bring  up  a  family 
of  motherless  children.  I  can't  be  with  them  as  much  as  I 
ought,  and  wish.  I've  got  to  make  money  for  them.  The 
boys  must  have  a  good  start,  and  the  girls  must  marry  well. 
They're  Hurdicotts,  you  see.  I  mustn't  forget  my  dear  wife's 
people." 

Monypenny  was  prepared  to  sneer,  till  he  remembered  that 
Hurdicotts,  from  Wiltshire  and  from  Graveley,  were  at  pres- 
ent giving  a  boom  to  his  town.  There  was  a  bunch  of  them 
staying  at  the  Maidenhood,  and  another  cluster  in  lodgings  in 
Zuriel  Place.  After  all,  Becket  had  given  the  town  a  good 
name,  by  persuading  exactly  the  right  people  to  visit  it.  Also 
he  had  subscribed  generously  to  the  Borough  Loan  and  other 
activities,  and  he  was  going  to  provide  the  money  for  exten- 
sive building  on  the  Gun  Garden  estates.  Monypenny  owed 
him  a  debt,  and,  urged  to  sacrifice,  he  heroically  invited  the 
whole  party  to  drink  tea  at  his  house  on  the  following  Thurs- 
day. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Monypenny  that  he  should  not 
give  even  a  parcel  of  children  a  casual  invitation,  that  he 
should  fix  a  decently  remote  day,  and  make  elaborately  formal 
preparations.  Becket  would  be  in  town,  so  he  expected  only 
the  children  and  Miss  Wells.  He  thought  out  a  suitable 
scheme  of  entertainment.  His  own  childhood  seemed  curi- 
ously remote;  all  the  memories  he  had  of  it  were  lumped  into 
an  idea  that  children  liked  eating  better  than  anything  else. 
That  would  simplify  matters — all  he  had  to  do  would  be  to 
lay  in  a  store  of  sweets  and  cake  and  fruit;  the  consequences 
would  not  trouble  Gun  Garden  House,  whatever  their  effect 
on  the  Coney  Banks. 

On  Thursday  afternoon  the  party  arrived  a  little  of  its 


40  TAMARISK  TOWN 

freshness  already  rubbed  off  by  the  hot  dusty  walk  from  the 
Coney  Banks.  Arthur  and  James,  in  Highland  suits,  held  the 
hands  of  Louisa  and  Charlotte,  in  the  rudiments  of  crino- 
lines. The  governess  did  not  wear  a  crinoline — Monypenny 
realised  vaguely  that  something  was  wrong  with  her,  but  could 
not  tell  what.  She  gave  him  a  queer  impression  of  brown- 
ness — brown  skin,  brown  eyes,  brown  clothes.  Her  hair, 
lumped  untidily  into  its  net,  was  like  one  of  those  brown 
clouds  that  discharge  rain  at  sunset.  She  was  very  young — 
absurdly  young  to  have  the  charge  of  this  motherless  family, 
and  it  was  soon  evident  that  she  could  not  keep  them  in  order. 
At  first  a  general  shyness  subdued  voices  and  restrained  ac- 
tions, but  when  this  had  worn  off  in  the  course  of  a  long  tea 
of  cakes  and  raspberries,  the  governess  showed  herself  power- 
less to  control  results.  Indeed,  she  seemed  to  enjoy  the  cakes 
and  raspberries  too. 

Monypenny  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  Miss  Wells  at  the 
bottom,  with  the  tea-pot.  When  she  poured  out  his  tea  she 
slopped  it  into  the  saucer,  and  put  in  two  lumps  of  sugar 
without  asking  him  if  he  took  any,  which  he  did  not.  When 
little  Louisa  dropped  her  cake  into  her  milk  Miss  Wells  be- 
gan to  laugh,  then  suddenly  seemed  to  remember  herself  and 
started  scolding  instead.  Whereupon  Louisa  wept,  and  Miss 
Wells  scolded  louder,  and  dried  her  eyes  with  a  violence  so 
extreme  that  Charlotte  began  to  weep  for  sympathy.  Then 
Miss  Wells  kissed  them  both,  so  that  the  jam  from  their  faces 
rubbed  off  on  to  hers,  which  offended  Monypenny,  though  he 
was  too  shy  to  tell  her  about  it. 

He  managed  somehow  to  endure  his  tea-party — its  jammy 
mouths,  its  fingers  in  his  flower-beds,  its  heels  in  his  turf,  its 
knees  green  from  tumbles  on  his  lawn;  and  when  at  last  it 
flapped  away  through  the  dust,  a  sticky  mass  of  soiled  clothes 
and  bodies,  his  chief  disgust  was  for  the  governess.  He  could 
not  tolerate  inefficiency,  and  the  puppy-walker  who  was  un- 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE        41 

able  to  keep  her  pups  in  order  filled  him  with  a  deeper  anger 
than  all  the  rioting  of  the  pack. 


§12 

The  September  of  that  year  was  sweetly  mild,  and  brought 
to  Marlingate  a  succession  of  russet  days,  with  the  scent  of 
weed-burning  in  the  mists.  The  sea  lay  like  a  pond,  with  the 
dance  of  sunlight  on  the  light  crimp  the  breeze  gave  it  far 
from  the  shore,  while  the  surf  creamed  gently  round  the 
rocks  it  was  wont  to  pound,  lapping  and  gurgling  and  sucking 
at  the  sand. 

Several  visitors  who  had  planned  to  leave,  stayed  on,  and, 
what  was  more,  others  came  down.  Marlingate  was  more 
sheltered  than  Brighton,  flanked  east  and  west  by  its  bills,  and 
shut  from  the  north  wind  by  the  weald — open  only  to  the 
south,  where  for  weeks  the  sea  had  drowsed  blue  and  shim- 
mering under  a  honey  mist  of  fog  and  light.  Near  the  end  of 
September  the  place  was  as  full  as  ever,  and  Monypenny,  in 
conference  with  Becket  and  Pelham,  formed  a  wonderful  new 
scheme.  Why  should  they  not  have  a  Winter  Season?  That 
was  the  way  to  attract  superior  visitors  and  good  residents. 
There  were  at  that  time  very  few  winter  resorts — most  sea- 
side places  became  deserts  in  October.  Marlingate  was  ideal- 
ly sheltered  for  the  cold  weather — facing  south,  a  sun-trap 
between  hills.  It  had  long  been  known  that  roses  would 
bloom  all  the  year  round  in  the  gardens  down  by  the  Gut's 
Mouth,  and  that  primroses  were  found  earlier  in  the  woods 
of  Old  Rumble  than  anywhere  else  in  Sussex. 

The  plan  was  brought  before  the  Town  Committee.  Mony- 
penny was  its  sponsor,  and  spoke  with  the  zeal  and  blaze  he 
seemed  to  keep  entirely  for  borough  affairs.  He  pointed  out 
the  advantages  both  to  finance  and  prestige.  A  Winter  Sea- 
son was  more  select  than  a  summer  one,  however  genteel  that 
might  be — better  people  came,  people  with  more  leisure  and 


42  TAMARISK  TOWN 

more  money.  They  would  be  easy  to  cater  for,  wanting  only 
society  and  perhaps  a  little  good  music  besides  the  leading 
attractions  of  warmth  and  sunshine.  The  Assembly  Room 
could  be  pushed  forward  and  finished  early  in  the  New  Year 
— then  there  could  be  dancing,  and  card-parties  on  a  large 
scale  .  .  .  people  might  even  stay  on  till  Easter,  so  that  the 
town  would  be  really  empty  only  for  about  a  month  in  the 
autumn. 

Pelham  supported  him,  decorating  his  bare  facts.  Becket 
also  spoke;  his  family  at  any  rate  would  stay  on,  and  he 
knew  several  people  who  would  enjoy  a  change  from  London 
at  Christmas  time.  Besides,  there  were  invalids  to  consider; 
this  new  fashion  of  wintering  in  the  south  of  France  might 
be  modified  and  turned  to  British  advantage. 

The  opposition  came  chiefly  from  Lewnes.  He  protested 
that  to  spend  money  all  the  year  round  would  make  for  a  level 
mediocrity  of  attraction,  whereas  to  concentrate  all  the  bor- 
ough funds  on  one  season  would  enable  the  Committee  to 
plunge.  Selectness  in  the  long  run  did  not  pay,  he  was  sure 
of  that.  Select  people  found  pleasure  in  reading  and  in 
scenery,  neither  of  which  would  bring  much  revenue  to  Marlin- 
gate.  He  did  not  want  to  attract  anyone  common — oh,  dear, 
no! — but  a  slightly  inferior  level  of  society  indulged  more 
lavishly  in  pleasure.  He  felt  it  would  be  best  to  have  but 
one  season,  and  do  it  really  handsome. 

However,  he  received  very  little  support,  for  though  it  was 
rumoured  that  the  fishermen  disliked  the  idea  of  visitors  all 
the  year  round,  Gallop  was  not  on  the  Town  Committee  to 
voice  their  disapproval.  Lusted,  who  otherwise  might  have 
sided  with  Lewnes,  was  won  to  the  other  party  by  the  thought 
of  substantial  "lets"  for  his  various  houses,  and  perhaps,  if 
residents  increased,  large  building  contracts.  Wastel  and 
Breeds  were  all  for  selectness  and  winter  visitors,  and  Vidler 
approved  from  the  point  of  view  of  trade.  In  the  end  Lewnes 
abandoned  his  dream  of  a  thumping  summer  season,  with  per- 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE        43 

haps  at  last  a  Pier  and  sixpenny  steamboat  sailings,  and  the 
new  idea  was  adopted  unanimously  by  the  Town  Committee, 
who  at  once  set  to  work  to  materialise  it.  New  posters  were 
put  up  at  London  Bridge,  proclaiming  Marlingate's  winter 
warmth  and  genteel  gaiety.  A  series  of  concerts  was  planned 
in  the  big  hall  of  the  Maidenhood,  and  one  or  two  covered  seats 
were  dotted  about  the  sea-front,  where  the  huge  cement  blocks 
were  at  last  achieving  the  shapeliness  of  a  Parade. 

Monypenny  once  more  felt  the  bite  of  enterprise.  He 
brought  before  the  Corporation  various  suggestions  for  im- 
proving the  lighting  of  the  streets,  a  necessity  now  that  the  Win- 
ter Season  was  decided  on,  and  hurried  on  the  building  both 
of  the  Assembly  Room  and  of  the  Marine  Arcade — a  long 
low  erection,  chiefly  toy-shops  and  bazaars,  yet  giving  scope  for 
a  covered  promenade  and  occasional  music. 

But  his  chief  plan  he  kept  to  himself  and  Becket.  If  this 
winter  were  successful,  he  would  start  building  on  his  estates 
the  following  spring.  He  would  start  quite  modestly  with  a 
few  good,  smallish  houses,  which  could  either  be  let  for  the 
season  or  would  perhaps  attract  a  permanent  residency.  There 
were  few  houses  in  the  town  likely  to  fulfil  this  purpose.  The 
residents  belonged  chiefly  to  the  trading  or  fishing  classes,  liv- 
ing either  in  the  High  Street  or  Fish  Street,  with  one  or  two 
professional  men  and  retired  shop-keepers,  who  lived  on  the 
Coney  Banks  or  Mount  Idle,  according  to  their  origin  east  or 
west  of  the  Gut's  Mouth.  There  were  no  villas  or  manors 
likely  to  attract  the  genteel  and  well-to-do  stranger.  Gun 
Garden  House  was  the  largest  in  the  place,  and  that  was 
merely  a  converted  inn. 

One  afternoon  early  in  October  he  and  Becket  went  over 
the  ground.  Monypenny  thought  of  running  a  new  road  east 
of  the  Slough,  starting  from  the  track  that  divided  the  Wil- 
derness from  the  Market  Place  and  joining  Rye  Lane  just  as  it 
came  clear  of  the  town.  The  sheltered  ground  that  dipped 
away  from  the  London  Road  and  surrounded  the  Slough,  he 


44  TAMARISK  TOWN 

was  reserving  for  the  Town  Park  which  should  one  day  be 
the  glory  of  Marlingate. 

The  dedicated  land  was  at  present  thickly  wooded.  There 
were  the  inevitable  tamarisks,  but  these  merely  hazed  the 
more  exposed  parts  with  pale  green  puffs  and  webs,  soon  giv- 
ing place  to  the  brown  mysterious  tangle  of  the  woods,  which 
rolled  away  to  the  violet  ridges  of  the  weald. 

Today  one  could  not  see  farther  north  than  Old  Rumble, 
for  the  autumn  fogs,  thick  and  sweet,  hung  over  the  woods, 
drowning  them  into  blue.  The  air  was  soft,  yet  with  a  sub- 
dued restlessness  that  fluttered  the  still  hanging  leaves. 
Clumps  of  tansy  were  still  yellow  in  sunny  corners,  and  the 
sweetmint  and  scabious  foamed  a  fragile  purple  round  the 
trunks  of  the  ashes. 

Monypenny  felt  something  almost  alien  in  these  field  flow- 
ers, so  unlike  the  thyme  and  the  gorse  of  the  cliffs,  the  thrift 
and  the  horned  poppy  of  the  shore.  Besides,  all  the  sea- 
flowers  had  died  of  the  first  autumn  winds,  and  here  in  the 
quiet  matted  shelter  of  the  woods  were  a  dozen  summer 
strays,  patching  the  dun  of  the  faded  leaves  with  their  yel- 
lows, their  purples  and  their  pinks.  He  missed,  too,  the 
smell  of  the  sea,  which  never  seemed  to  blow  beyond  the 
outer  ring  of  tamarisks.  He  felt  shut  away  from  Marlingate 
in  these  woods  that  somehow  did  not  seem  to  belong  to  him, 
though  he  owned  every  rood  and  yard. 

"It'll  be  a  business  clearing  all  this  away,"  said  Becket. 

"We  can  leave  a  tree  or  two — ornamental,  you  know.  But 
the  bushes  must  go." 

"It's  good  ground." 

"Yes — and  I  think  we  had  better  give  each  house  plenty 
of  garden  space." 

"Of  course.  These  must  be  good  houses  for  good  people. 
Were  you  thinking  of  having  Figg  for  architect?" 

"Yes.  He's  a  clever  man,  and  I'd  like  to  see  him  in  a  big 
way.  Then  we  can  be  proud  of  him." 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE        45 

Becket  chuckled. 

"I  daresay  this  town  will  make  a  name  for  more  than  one 
of  us.  I  expect  you'll  be  calling  this  road  after  yourself,  as 
a  beginning?" 

"Not  I ! "  said  Monypenny .  He  moved  on  a  few  steps.  He 
felt  vaguely  uncomfortable,  almost  superstitious,  as  if  within 
himself  he  knew  that  no  good  would  come  of  meddling  with 
these  woods.  The  sunlight  danced  down  to  him  through  the 
leaves,  and  he  saw  it  gleaming  far  away  on  the  Slough.  The 
thickets  seemed  full  of  a  hushed  madness,  of  laughter  and 
skipping  feet.  .  .  . 

"I  suppose  .  .  ."  Becket's  voice  reached  him  as  from  the 
streets  far  away,  "since  you're  not  naming  this  road  after 
yourself,  it  hasn't  occurred  to  you  that — er — er — that  Becket 
Road  might  sound — er — euphonious?" 

"You  shall  call  it  what  you  please,"  said  Monypenny;  "you 
have  a  right." 

"Then  what  do  you  say  to  Becket  Road? — or  Becket 
Grove?  It  would  look  well  planted  with  trees  both  sides." 

Monypenny  did  not  answer.  He  stood  a  little  way  apart 
from  Becket,  almost  uneasily  breathing  the  racy  sweetness  of 
the  air.  Evening,  sun-steeped  and  perfumed,  was  streaming 
in  and  out  of  the  oaks,  purpling  their  red  crowns,  fluttering  be- 
tween the  hazels,  and  glimmering  through  those  mysterious 
thickets  where  tangles  of  bryony  hung  from  bramble  and  ash. 
At  that  moment  the  wood  seemed  to  be  trying  to  draw  him  into 
its  secret  life.  He  felt  disturbed,  as  if  from  behind  a  tree- 
trunk  or  out  of  a  thicket  that  life  might  suddenly  take  shape, 
half  human,  half  animal — half  loving,  half  alien.  He  could 
hear  all  around  him  a  fluttering,  a  crackling  and  a  whisper- 
ing— and  suddenly  fear  gave  a  twist  to  his  heart. 

He  shrank,  then  glanced  back  over  his  shoulder.  Two  huge 
dark  eyes  were  peering  at  him  through  the  branches  of  an 
ash.  They  were  the  eyes  of  some  creature  half  animal,  half 


46  TAMARISK  TOWN 

human,  a  fawn,  a  fairy  .  .  .  and  as  they  looked  they  seemed 
to  call. 

The  next  moment  Becket's  family  was  swarming  and  clam- 
ouring round  him,  and  he  was  shaking  hands  with  the  gov- 
erness. 

§13 

After  that  swift  revel  of  emotion  it  was  an  anti-climax  to 
find  the  noisy,  grubby  Beckets  trespassing  in  his  woods,  and 
to  be  at  the  same  time  unable  to  treat  them  as  he  would 
treat  ordinary  trespassers.  He  stretched  his  lips  into  a  smile, 
and,  with  a  still  greater  effort,  patted  the  head  of  little  Char- 
lotte who  stood  nearest  to  him.  He  looked  at  their  purple- 
stained  mouths  and  hands 

"So  you've  found  plenty  of  blackberries  in  my  woods"- 
unable  to  resist  at  least  an  implied  reproach. 

"Ever  so  many,"  squeaked  Charlotte.  "Miss  Wells  tored  her 
skirt." 

Monypenny  then  noticed  that  the  gathers  of  the  governess's 
skirt  were  torn  from  the  waist,  so  that  the  hem  drooped  and 
flapped  round  her  ankles.  She  stood  leaning  against  the 
trunk  of  an  oak,  her  hands  behind  her,  her  bonnet  fallen  side- 
ways, and  her  dead-leaf  hair,  escaping  from  what  had  once 
been  bandeaux,  all  rough  against  the  bark.  .  .  . 

"Well?"  she  said  suddenly. 

"Er — I  beg  your  pardon." 

"I  thought  you  wanted  to  say  something — you  were  look- 
ing at  me." 

"I  beg  your  pardon "  Monypenny  repeated  himself,  then 

coloured  with  annoyance.    This  governess  of  Becket's  was  an 
absurdity. 

"Perhaps  we  ought  to  be  turning  back,"  he  said  to  the  wid- 
ower; "I  think  we've  done  everything  that's  needed  for  the 
present." 

"Yes,  yes  ...  I  suppose  so.    Miss  Wells,  will  you  take  the 


MONYPENNY  OF  MARLINGATE        47 

children  on  ahead?  They  ought  to  have  their  faces  washed 
before  tea.  You'll  come  back  with  us?"  he  added  to  Mony- 
penny;  "we  started  five-o'clock  tea  in  town  last  Winter  and  it 
has  become  a  habit." 

Monypenny  shook  his  head. 

"No,  thank  you.    I  have  a  lot  of  work  to  finish." 

"You're  strangely  fond  of  work,"  said  Becket  as  they  be- 
gan to  walk  towards  the  town.  "I  never  saw  a  fellow  so  oc- 
cupied— a  man  of  leisure,  I  mean." 

"I  should  hate  to  be  a  man  of  leisure." 

"Personally  I  find  work  just  a  means  to  an  end.  You  seem 
to  like  it  for  its  own  sake." 

"It  is  also  a  means  to  an  end." 

"Ah — you're  thinking  of  Marlingate.  I  was  thinking  of 

them "  and  he  looked  towards  his  disappearing  family, 

crashing  down  the  slope  at  Miss  Wells's  heels. 

"I  should  be  most  grateful  if  you  would  ask  them  to  go 
more  carefully  through  my  plantation." 

Becket  cleared  his  throat.  "Miss  Wells,"  he  shouted, 
"please  see  that  the  little  ones  don't  damage  Mr.  Monypenny's 
property." 

The  wind  brought  a  faint,  unintelligible  answer,  and  at  the 
same  time  the  vanishing  group  contracted  round  the  gov- 
erness. 

"She's  a  wonderful  woman,"  said  Becket. 

"Who?— Miss  Wells?" 

"Yes — out  of  the  ordinary  run  of  governesses,  you  know. 
She's  not  a  strict  disciplinarian,  but  on  the  whole  she  man- 
ages the  children  admirably.  They're  devoted  to  her." 

"She  seems  to  have  a  good  deal  in  common  with  them," 
said  Monypenny  grimly. 

"That's  partly  the  reason,  I  suppose.  But  in  my  eyes  her 
great  quality  is  this — "  he  dropped  his  voice — "she  was  related 
to  my  dear  wife." 

"Oh  .     .  " 


48  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"Yes — it's  rather  an  unhappy  story;  perhaps  I  ought  not 
to  tell  it  to  you  .  .  ."  he  hesitated;  "the  fact  is  she's  the 
daughter  of  a  cousin  of  my  poor  Emma's,  a  girl  who  was 
brought  up  with  her  .  .  .  and  went  wrong.  .  .  .  The  man 
was  an  officer  in  the  service  of  the  East  India  Company 
— drowned  on  his  way  home  to  marry  her.  She  died  soon  af- 
ter her  child  was  born,  and  my  sweet  Emma  always  interested 
herself  in  the  poor  little  thing.  A  few  years  ago  she  took 
her  into  our  household.  She's  had  a  good  education  and  can 
teach  simple  lessons.  She  dances  beautifully  too,  and  sings 
and  plays.  That  will  be  useful  to  the  girls  later  on." 

"And  you  feel  you  can  safely  leave  her  in  charge  of  the 
children  while  you're  away?" 

"Oh,  certainly.  I've  an  old  housekeeper  who  knows  how 
dear  Emma  would  have  liked  things.  .  .  .  Sometimes, 
Monypenny,  I  feel  I  would  give  everything  just  to  know  what 
she  would  do  on  various  occasions.  I  am  so  anxious  not  to 
go  against  her  wishes  in  any  detail.  Sometimes  I  can't  help 
feeling  she  sees  us  all  now.  .  .  ." 

"Um,"  said  Monypenny. 

"She  treated  Miss  Wells  almost  as  a  daughter  during  the 
last  few  years  of  her  life,  and  I  assure  you  the  dear  girl  cher- 
ishes her  memory  as  of  a  tender  mother.  In  the  evenings, 
after  the  children  are  in  bed,  I  often  ask  her  to  bring  her 
sewing  into  the  drawing-room,  and  chat  to  her  about  my 
poor  Emma." 

"Ah,"  said  Monypenny. 

That  accounted  for  the  governess. 


CHAPTER  II 
MORGAN  LE  FAY 

§i 

THE  Winter  Season,  after  a  few  uncertain  weeks,  fulfilled 
its  sponsor's  hopes.  There  was  nothing  sensational,  no  ex- 
travagant burst  of  luck,  just  a  steady  flow  of  progress 
through  favourable  circumstances. 

The  summer  visitors  who  had  enjoyed  the  quiet  attractions 
of  July  came  down  experimentally  at  Christmas,  and  those 
with  leisure  drifted  into  a  kind  of  winter  residence.  It  was 
not  fashionable  to  roam  from  the  winter  fireside,  except  among 
those  who  could  afford  the  South  of  France.  There  were  few 
English  cold-weather  resorts  except  the  inland  spas,  and  the 
knowledge  of  a  sunny  sheltered  town,  where  picturesque  scen- 
ery and  genteel  entertainment  could  always  be  relied  on,  soon 
spread  without  the  help  of  the  London  Bridge  posters.  In- 
valids who  could  not  afford  the  Riviera,  old  people  tried  by 
the  northern  cold,  delicate  people,  children  needing  change 
of  air,  and  others  with  no  pretext  but  a  desire  for  novelty  and 
sunshine,  came  down  to  the  various  well-appointed  lodgings 
and  modest  hotels.  When  it  was  known  that  the  woods  just 
outside  the  town  were  to  be  cleared  for  building,  there  were 
one  or  two  enquiries  as  to  eligible  houses.  Figg  had  already 
sent  in  designs  for  Becket  Grove — solid,  red-brick  houses, 
for  whose  sprawling  roofs,  stubbed  gable-ends  and  kiln-like 
bulges,  he  had  ransacked  the  far-off  and  ignored  villages  of 
the  Weald.  There  was  no  ornament,  no  mock-architectures, 
no  stucco,  and  no  basements.  Already  the  trees  were  being 

49 


50  TAMARISK  TOWN 

cleared  away  in  preparation.  A  band  of  shorn  earth,  levelled 
and  pegged  out,  had  appeared  on  the  outermost  woodland 
rim. 

Early  in  the  New  Year  the  Assembly  Room  was  finished. 
There  was  now  no  need  to  postpone  its  opening  till  Easter,  as 
had  been  at  first  planned.  The  town  was  not  so  full  as  in  the 
summer  time,  but  there  were  many  good  people,  and  a  large 
public  function  was  bound  to  advertise  the  place  and  attract 
fresh  visitors.  There  was  much  argument  in  the  Town  Com- 
mittee as  to  the  nature  of  the  opening  ceremony.  The  weak- 
er sort  clung  to  concerts  and  card-parties,  the  bolder  were 
for  a  ball.  In  the  end  the  bolder  won,  compromising  with  a 
card-room  for  dowagers.  Small  dances  had  been  held  from 
time  to  time,  at  the  Maidenhood,  but  this  was  to  be  alto- 
gether more  impressive.  An  orchestra  was  to  come  all  the 
way  from  Brighton,  and  the  supper  was  to  be  the  double  tri- 
umph of  the  Maidenhood  and  the  New  Moon.  For  days  be- 
forehand the  Room  was  subjected  to  a  drastic  decorative 
treatment,  in  which  patriotism  and  Christmas  sentiment  were 
combined  according  to  the  best  traditions  of  municipal  art. 

In  the  town  itself  raged  boiling  anticipation,  not  unmixed 
with  strife — for  the  Town  Committee  had  vowed  at  all  risks 
to  keep  the  festival  "select,"  and  had  in  its  invitations  en- 
tirely ignored  the  tradesman  class,  except  those  connected  with 
the  Borough  Council.  This  caused  much  bitterness  among 
wives  and  daughters — husbands  and  sons  were  appeased  either 
by  contracts  for  provisions,  draperies  and  such  like,  or  by  the 
universal  shopping-boom,  which  cleared  out  nearly  every  shop 
in  Marlingate  during  the  fortnight  before  the  ball. 

There  were  three  Masters  of  the  Ceremonies,  appointed  by 
the  Town  Committee — Pelham,  Becket,  and  Monypenny. 
Pelham's  uses  were  merely  civic  and  ornamental;  Monypenny 
was  the  man  of  action,  and  director  of  the  other  two;  Becket 
was  a  financial  background  to  Monypenny.  He  was  also  use- 
ful from  the  social  point  of  view,  for  Monypenny  had  had 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  51 

but  little  experience  of  big  entertainments,  whereas  Becket 
with  his  City  banquets  and  expensively-dining  Hurdicotts, 
was  schooled  above  his  rank  in  the  etiquette  of  such  occa- 
sions. 

The  merchant  was  staying  in  Marlingate  till  the  middle  of 
January,  and  Monypenny  was  often  in  the  black,  aldermanish 
house  on  the  Coney  Banks,  which  Becket  had  now  taken  on  a 
long  lease,  and  furnished  with  his  London  superfluity,  patrioti- 
cally supplemented  at  Dunk's  local  furniture  emporium — a  wel- 
ter of  spindle-legged  tables  that  fell  at  a  jolt  and  mahogany 
sideboards  that  could  scarcely  be  wedged  through  the  doorway, 
with  sofas  and  chairs  of  voluptuous  outlines  and  ascetic  sur- 
faces. Becket  always  had  ready  good  wine  and  tobacco,  and 
a  certain  amount  of  reliable  if  rather  fumbling  information. 
The  governess  and  children  were  never  to  be  seen,  though 
Monypenny  gathered  that  Becket  indulged  ignominiously  a 
children's  hour  after  five  o'clock  tea. 

§2 

With  his  faith  in  Becket's  social  alertness,  it  was  a  blow  to 
Monypenny  to  discover  that  he  proposed  allowing  his  governess 
to  go  to  the  ball. 

"The  poor  child  is  so  eager,  and  has  so  few  pleasures, 
Monypenny;  it's  a  grey  life  for  a  girl — looking  after  other 
people's  children." 

"I  am  sure  it  is." 

"Besides,  she's  a  Hurdicott — we  mustn't  forget  that,  though 
of  course  we  can't  let  her  use  the  name — ahem — and  I  feel 
that  on  this  occasion  she  will  do  our  family  credit.  She's  a 
pretty  girl,  and  a  beautiful  dancer.  I  find  that  Lady  Cock- 
street  is  willing  to  chaperone  her." 

This  altered  the  case.  Lady  Cockstreet  was  a  Hurdicott  who 
had  married  a  Midland  baron,  and  as  dowager  of  his  family 
had  added  to  the  dignity  of  her  own.  If  she  chose  to  patronise 


52  TAMARISK  TOWN 

a  bastard  slip  of  her  honoured  tree,  it  was  not  for  others  to 
show  disdain.  Monypenny  forgave  Becket  his  folly.  All  he 
had  dreaded  was  that  the  widower,  by  his  sentimental  indul- 
gence of  dear  Emma's  foundling,  should  drive  away  the  people 
who  brought  glamour  to  Marlingate. 

The  night  of  the  Assembly  came  dawdling  at  last  to  an  ex- 
pectant town.  All  day  it  had  been  in  ferment — the  static  and 
permanent  town  that  is,  for  the  strolling  population  took  with 
extraordinary  calm  this  supreme  effort  at  its  entertainment. 

Mr.  Vessit,  the  hair-dresser,  had  been  busy  from  before 
breakfast  till  an  hour  altogether  dangerous  in  its  proximity  to 
the  ball.  Those  ladies  who  had  applied  to  him  too  late  for  an 
afternoon  or  evening  attendance  were  forced  to  spend  the 
whole  day  in  a  state  of  oiled  and  curled  irritability,  unable  to 
put  on  a  bonnet  or  to  lay  head  on  a  cushion.  The  two  local 
dressmakers  were  frantic,  as  the  peculiarities  of  their  talent 
required  much  in  the  way  of  alterations  at  the  last  minute.  It 
was  rumoured  that  Mrs.  Pelham  had  ordered  a  dress  from 
town,  which  was  considered  highly  disloyal  by  the  Misses 
Lewnes,  forced  respectively  to  a  pale  pink  and  a  pale  blue 
tarlatan  at  their  brother's  emporium. 

When  the  actual  hour  of  the  entertainment  came  fresh  dif- 
ficulties arose,  owing  to  the  limitations  of  the  livery  stables 
at  the  Maidenhood.  These  could  not  supply  even  half  the 
demand  for  carriages,  and  as  anyone  who  came  on  foot  would 
be  unclassed  from  thenceforward,  there  was  a  stream  of  arrivals 
from  nearly  an  hour  before  the  ceremony  till  about  the  same 
time  after  it.  At  the  main  entrance  an  awning  had  been  put 
up  and  a  carpet  laid.  On  either  side  jostled  a  mixed  multi- 
tude from  the  America  Ground — fishermen,  workmen,  tramps 
and  pikers,  who,  with  their  women,  made  audible  and  some- 
times unlovely  comment  on  their  betters. 

Inside  was  a  dazzle  of  gas  and  colour.  A  huge  chandelier 
hung  from  the  ceiling  and  was  mirrored  in  the  pool  of  the 
polished  floor,  while  round  the  walls  were  globes  innumerable, 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  53 

each  with  its  screaming  jet.  Thick  ropes  of  holly  swung  under 
the  ceiling,  looped  up  with  escutcheons  of  the  borough  arms 
(three  gorged  lions  regardant,  issuing  from  castles — and  the 
motto  "Constans  Fidei").  There  was  just  the  right  amount 
of  mistletoe — enough  to  be  arch,  and  yet  not  enough  to  be 
vulgar.  Entwined  Union  Jacks  and  Royal  Standards  deco- 
rated the  bandstand  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  and  there  were 
several  palms  dotted  about  to  suggest  an  illusory  seclusion  and 
to  hide  awkward  joins  in  the  decorations. 

Monypenny,  Pelham  and  Becket  arrived  almost  together. 
They  inspected  the  hall — gingerly  sliding  their  feet  over  its 
beeswaxed  surface — the  adjoining  supper-room,  the  cardroom 
and  cloak-rooms.  They  also  covertly  inspected  each  other,  and 
both  Becket  and  Pelham  felt  somehow  outraged  by  Monypenny. 
He  was  not  exactly  foppish,  but  subtly  contrived  to  suggest 
what  he  was  not.  His  grey  suit  braided  with  black  was  more 
closely  connected  with  Saville  Row  than  with  the  house  of 
Lewnes,  and  in  Pelham's  eyes  at  least  carried  its  simplicity  to 
the  point  of  ostentation.  He  himself  had  been  clad  by  a  city 
tailor  of  conservative  mind,  and  looked  a  degree  better  dressed 
than  Becket,  who,  consistent  in  his  local  patriotism,  had  al- 
lowed himself  to  be  clothed  from  collar  to  pumps  by  Lewnes, 
and  was  now  indignantly  chafing  to  find  his  associates  in  dis- 
loyalty and  well-fitting  suits. 

What  struck  him  most  about  Monypenny  was  his  good  looks; 
he  was  used  to  the  clothes,  but  the  young  man,  while  conform- 
ing to  plain  London  custom  in  his  attire,  had  deliberately  or 
accidentally  stressed  the  bizarre  note  in  his  appearance.  His 
hair  was  unoiled,  which  emphasised  its  whiteness,  and  his  dark 
side  whiskers  were  so  flat  and  short  as  to  give  his  face  a  strange, 
clean-shaven  look.  Becket  noticed  the  extraordinary  length  of 
his  chin,  the  piercing  blackness  of  his  eyes;  the  face  seemed 
almost  Spanish  tonight,  it  had  a  sinister  darkness  and  nar- 
rowness. .  .  . 

The  next  arrivals  were  Mrs.  Pelham  and  young  Robert — 


54  TAMARISK  TOWN 

she  gorgeous  in  maroon  velvet  over  a  Eugenie  petticoat,  he 
macassared  and  Lewnes-clad.  Then  Lewnes  came  bustling  in 
with  his  thin  sisters,  then  Vidler,  then  Tom  Potter  the  clerk, 
then  one  by  one  the  rest  of  the  Town  Council,  except  Gallop, 
who  "dudn't  care  fur  routies."  Elphee  had  been  turned  out  at 
the  last  municipal  elections,  and,  retired  to  Mount  Idle,  had 
solemnly  shaken  from  his  feet  the  dust  of  this  new  Babylon. 
The  Rector  of  St.  Nicholas  was  there  to  emphasise  the  virtue 
and  selectness  of  the  gathering.  The  doctor  and  the  lawyer 
were  present  with  their  wives.  Bond  of  the  Library  had  been 
precariously  admitted,  as  his  guide-book,  universally  read  and 
admired,  had  lifted  him  out  of  trade  into  the  ranks  of  author- 
ship. The  rest  of  the  company  was  made  up  of  visitors,  among 
whom  glittered  some  Hurdicotts  of  Graveley. 

Monypenny  stood  by  the  door,  greeting  the  guests  as  they 
arrived.  Pelhami  and  Becket  stood  beside  him,  but  they  gradu- 
ally seemed  to  fade,  so  that  in  the  end  it  was  often  only  Mony- 
penny whom  the  visitors  saw.  For  he  had  begun  to  find  this 
new  aspect  of  the  town's  life  as  engrossing  as  any  other,  and, 
moreover,  there  was  something  here  that  was  not  purely  muni- 
cipal, that  called  to  the  buried  youth  in  him — which  so  seldom 
did  more  than  stir  in  its  grave,  and  ask  questions  that  could 
be  answered. 

The  visitors  praised  him  to  one  another  as  he  moved  among 
them — a  Victorian  Beau  Nash,  utterly  devoid  of  that  suavity 
and  lightness  which  make  a  man  popular,  but  somehow  impres- 
sive, a  stimulant  to  imagination. 

"You  may  take  my  word  for  it — that  man  has  a  most 
romantic  history,"  said  Mrs.  Alaric  Papillon  (born  a  Hurdi- 
cott). 

"He's  certainly  distinguished,"  remarked  her  maiden  sister- 
in-law,  "so  I  should  think  it  possible  that  he  has  never  had  a 
romance  at  all." 

"My  love!— with  that  air!" 

"My  opinion  of  him,"  said  the  Dowager  Lady  Cockstreet, 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  55 

"is  that  he  has  not  had  his  romance  yet,  but  that  Nature  has 
designed  him  for  one.  That  man,  to  me,  is  all  future." 

"All  future! — and  an  alderman  at  twenty-eight.  I  hear  he 
was  born  middle-aged." 

"No  doubt.  Therefore  he  has  still  to  meet  his  youth.  He 
was  introduced  to  me  a  short  while  ago,  and  I  observed  him 
well.  The  man  is  emotionally  in  the  nursery." 

"And,  like  many  men,  may  never  come  out  of  it,"  from  the 
virgin  Papillon. 

"He  may  not,  of  course;  it  is  ridiculous  to  lay  down  the  law 
after  a  few  minutes'  conversation.  But  in  spite  of  his  staidness 
and  all  his  hard  brilliance  of  mind,  he  strikes  me  as  a  man 
less  gifted  in  intellect  than  in  emotion." 

§3 

The  band  had  arrived,  and  dancing  had  begun,  swaying  to 
the  deux-temps.  The  room  was  florescent  with  gay-coloured 
crinolines,  dipping  and  belling  over  the  polished  floor.  There 
was  a  floating  of  scarves  and  lace  shawls — there  was  a  drift 
of  faint  perfumes;  flowers,  macassar  oil,  ottar  of  roses,  lavender 
and  peau  d'espagne.  Above  it  all  was  that  air  of  glitter,  beauty, 
richness,  sweetness  and  unreality  which  haunts  the  civilised 
survival  of  primitive  delights. 

Monypenny  watched  it  with  a  throb  of  pleasure.  It  was 
the  dedication-feast  of  Marlingate.  At  present  the  room  was 
a  trifle  too  large  for  the  company,  but  his  imagination  crowded 
it  with  anticipatory  ghosts.  He  saw  this  gleaming  show  as  a 
beginning,  and  his  mind  ran  on  to  future  revels,  more  bril- 
liant, more  sure  in  their  effects,  better  given  and  better 
graced.  .  .  . 

He  was  roused  from  his  dream  by  a  touch  on  his  arm.  He 
started,  then  looked  unrecognisingly  at  the  face  that  stared  up 
at  him.  He  had  a  swift,  dazzling  impression  of  a  woman's  skin, 
marvellously  white,  of  a  jewel  that  gleamed,  of  a  billowing 


56  TAMARISK  TOWN 

dress  in  which  a  thousand  silver  threads  made  moonlight  .... 
then  as  he  met  eyes  that  were  dark,  a  little  wild,  and  a  little 
wicked,  he  knew,  and  stiffened  into  a  disillusioned  greeting. 

"Good  evening,  Miss  Wells." 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Monypenny." 

He  had  not  noticed  her  when  she  came  in  with  Lady  Cock- 
street.  She  had  probably  been  received  by  Becket  or  by 
Pelham.  He  was  amazed  at  the  child's  effrontery  in  coming  to 
greet  him  like  this — where  was  her  chaperon?  The  feeling  of 
irritation  with  which  she  never  failed  to  inspire  him,  rose  up 
and  sent  a  flush  to  his  dark  cheek;  but  mingled  with  it  tonight 
was  a  new  feeling  of  wonder. 

He  gazed  at  her  half  incredulously.  He  had  never  thought 
her  capable  of  looking  as  she  looked  tonight.  He  was  too  in- 
nocent to  know  how  a  change  of  hair-dressing  can  alter  a 
woman's  appearance  or  how  much  on  her  appearance  depends 
her  manner.  He  realised  dimly  that  Miss  Wells's  hair  no 
longer  flopped  in  ragged  clouds  over  her  ears,  that  her  dress 
no  longer  hung  drabbly  from  her  waist,  and  that  her  man- 
ner was  no  longer  that  of  the  half  grown-up  little  governess. 

But  he  could  not  tell  exactly  where  the  change  lay.  All  he 
knew  was  that  tonight  she  was  white  and  glittering,  transformed 
as  if  by  an  enchantment.  The  spell  must  have  touched  him 
too,  for  he  suddenly  found  himself  asking  her  for  a  dance. 

She  handed  him  her  little  empty  card.  His  was  crowded 
with  great  names,  and  there  was  no  space  for  her  till  near  the 
end.  As  he  wrote,  he  saw  Lady  Cockstreet  raise  her  fan,  and 
the  next  moment  Miss  Wells's  little  glove  was  over  his  hand. 

'•That  will  do — I  must  go  now.  Thank  you  very  much." 
And  still  half  under  a  spell,  he  watched  her  swim  like  a  water- 
lily  over  the  pool  of  the  shining  floor 

Then  suddenly  a  German  waltz  began  and  his  enchantment 
was  broken.  He  stiffened  his  back,  smoothed  his  gloves,  pat- 
ted his  shirt-frill,  and,  walking  to  where  Miss  Victoria  Hurdi- 
cott  sat  with  her  mamma,  claimed  her  hand  with  a  low  bow. 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  57 

After  that  the  evening  passed  in  pageantry.  He  danced, 
and  found  himself  a  good  dancer.  The  mazurka  succeeded  the 
waltz,  la  tempete  the  mazurka,  the  quadrille  la  tempete — 
memories  of  the  steps  revived  to  mix  with  a  natural  lightness 
and  a  rather  formal  grace.  Some  of  his  partners  found  him 
too  stiff,  others  too  silent,  but  none  spoke  of  him  without 
praise.  "He's  much  the  most  presentable  creature  in  this 
room,"  yawned  Miss  Victoria  over  her  fan.  "He  gives  a  cachet 
to  the  assembly,"  said  her  mamma.  "Anyhow  he  quite  out- 
shines poor  cousin  Hugo,"  said  her  uncle,  Leo  Hurdicott  of 
Graveley. 

Monypenny  knew  he  was  attracting  notice  and  favour.  A 
subtle  essence  of  triumph  was  in  his  blood,  heating  and  enrich- 
ing it.  He  was  a  little  surprised  at  his  own  enjoyment — he  had 
never  thought  that  he  would  find  himself  delighting  in  the 
town's  gaieties  apart  from  their  function  as  means  to  an  end. 
Tonight  he  was  almost  young  in  his  savouring  of  the  moment, 
in  his  half-realisation  of  his  own  attractive  manhood,  in  his 
appreciation  of  his  partners'  lightness  and  beauty  and  grace. 

The  air  became  warm  and  heavy  with  fugitive  scents,  and 
scent  and  music  seemed  to  weave  and  mingle  with  the  light 
and  the  colours  that  shifted  and  swayed.  A  golden  impalpable 
dust  hung  over  the  dancers'  heads,  hazing  the  crude  glare  of 
the  gas,  bringing  that,  too,  into  the  mellow  middle  ground 
which  the  room  had  begun  to  be — every  sharpness  of  vision  or 
sound  sweetened  into  a  floating  harmonious  dream,  where  all 
was  soft,  glowing,  warm  and  rhythmic. 

Monypenny  came  at  last  to  resent  the  attitude  of  his  fellow 
councillors,  who  for  the  most  part  stood  round  the  wall  in  the 
final  stages  of  boredom.  They  all  struck  him  as  looking  stupid 
and  badly  dressed.  He  wished  they  had  not  come,  since 
they  could  not  enjoy  themselves,  but  must  needs  cast  on  all 
this  beauty  and  pleasure  the  blight  of  their  disdain.  They  had 
petty  souls,  which  could  not  rise  above  the  dusty  concerns  of 
municipal  life  and  viewed  its  brighter,  more  soaring  aspects 


58  TAMARISK  TOWN 

with,  at  best,  mere  toleration.  Once,  between  the  dances,  he 
was  accosted  by  Vidler,  who  began  to  relieve  his  soul  on  the 
matter  of  the  America  Ground,  the  population  of  which  was 
flattening  its  nose  against  the  ballroom  windows.  It  was  high 
time,  said  the  Alderman,  that  they  approached  the  Commission 
of  Woods  and  Forests  for  the  removal  of  this  abomination  .  .  . 
and  Monypenny  who  had  vaguely  enjoyed  the  sensation  of  a 
hundred  envious  eyes  fixed  upon  his  revels,  felt  angry  with 
Vidler  for  bursting  in  with  borough  affairs,  and  for  thinking 
that  he  would  care  to  listen.  He  broke  away,  and  offered  his 
arm  to  a  Hurdicott  who  wanted  a  chicken  sandwich  and  a  glass 
of  wine. 

The  small  hours  came,  with  their  mingling  of  lassitude  and 
spurting  energy — the  fiery  furnace  of  proof,  in  which  pleasure 
shall  either  melt  and  trickle  away  or  fiercely  purge  itself  into 
joy.  One  or  two  guests  began  to  leave,  but  there  was  no 
formal  departure,  rather  a  furtive  slipping  out,  as  of  those  who 
know  they  leave  a  feast  too  early.  Monypenny,  lighter  than 
ever  of  foot  and  heart,  saw  one  or  two  sleepy  dowagers  and 
disappointed  spinsters  to  their  carriages — the  Town  Council 
had  vanished  unseen  at  the  first  opportunity — and  turned  back 
to  the  ballroom,  triumphantly  conscious  that  it  now  contained 
no  one  but  the  young  and  joyful. 

He  looked  down  at  his  programme  to  see  who  was  his  next 
partner,  and  felt  a  little  qualm  of  annoyance  when  he  saw  that 
it  was  Miss  Wells.  Her  magic  had  gone,  and  he  wondered  now 
how  she  had  ever  bewitched  him.  He  had  noticed  her  only 
at  intervals  during  the  evening — sitting  in  mixed  mutiny  and 
resignation  beside  Lady  Cockstreet,  or  with  some  ineligible- 
looking  partner  dodging  her  crinoline.  She  had  not  danced 
much.  The  Hurdicotts  present  knew  who  she  was,  and  did  not 
favour  her.  Lady  Cockstreet  considered  that  she  had  made  a 
mistake  in  bringing  her,  lost  heart,  and  seldom  dared  introduc- 
tions. She  was  shocked  at  the  way  the  girl  had  accosted  Mony- 
penny, and  gave  her  a  lecture  on  ballroom  manners,  which 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  59 

did  not  increase  the  friendliness  between  them.  Miss  Wells 
felt  sore  against  this  relative  who  was  ashamed  of  her,  and 
the  elder  woman  felt  sorry  for  her  charge  and  angry  with  those 
other  members  of  her  family  who  had  turned  her  kind  action 
into  a  blunder. 

Monypenny  advanced  and  claimed  the  governess  with  his 
formal  bow,  and  when  he  stood  with  her  by  his  side,  her  little 
hand  in  his  for  the  mazurka,  he  felt  some  of  the  lost  magic 
creeping  back.  Again  he  had  that  impression  of  radiance  and 
whiteness — the  black  ringlets  bunching  on  her  neck  accentu- 
ated the  whiteness  of  her  skin,  and  a  subtle  rich  scent  rose 
from  her  silvery  dress  which  swam  like  starlight  round  her 
shoulders.  She  stood  gravely  swaying  her  fan,  and  there  was 
something  in  her  attitude  which  amazed  him,  so  assured  was  it, 
so  graceful  and  confident.  He  had  not  thought  her  capable  of 
thus  assuming  the  airs  of  a  great  lady. 

He  found  her  a  beautiful  dancer,  light  as  cobweb,  yet  with 
a  warmth  and  an  abandonment  which  his  other  partners  had 
lacked.  Sometimes  when  he  held  her  lightly  pliant  against  his 
arm  he  was  conscious  of  that  wild  woodland  thrill  surging  up 
under  her  laces  and  half  startling  him  with  thoughts  of  chasing 
sunlight.  He  was  at  once  troubled  and  enticed  by  the  idea 
that  she  might  suddenly  dart  away,  or  be  magically  trans- 
formed into  some  woodland  Cinderella  and  run  off  brown  and 
barefoot  with  dead  leaves  in  her  hair. 

But  this  was  never  more  than  an  undercurrent.  In  spite  of 
her  one  big  lapse  from  ballroom  etiquette  she  was  on  the  sur- 
face pre-eminently  a  fine  lady,  more  so  indeed  than  his  other 
young  lady  partners,  whom  convention  and  education  con- 
demned to  airs  suitable  to  white  muslin.  There  was  something 
far  more  adult  about  Morgan  Wells,  just  as  there  was  also 
something  far  more  childish.  He  realised  that  part  of  her 
oddness,  part  of  her  charm  lay  in  the  fact  that  she  had 
escaped  girlhood,  that  she  was  always  child  or  woman,  never 
girl.  She  was  woman  tonight.  In  time  he  came  to  realise  what 


60  TAMARISK  TOWN 

all  of  her  sex  in  the  room  had  known  from  the  first,  that  the 
extraordinary  whiteness  of  her  skin  was  due  to  an  extraordinary 
thickness  of  powder,  and  that  the  scent  had  been  sprinkled  more 
lavishly  than  discreetly  on  her  gown.  That  the  gown  itself  was 
made  only  of  the  cheapest  silver  muslin,  he  was  too  inexperi- 
enced to  see,  for  she  wore  it  as  if  it  were  brocade — indeed,  even 
those  who  realised  the  shifts  on  which  it  rested  were  bound  to 
acknowledge  her  superbness,  the  fine,  if  at  present  unfinished, 
assurance  of  her  manner.  She  was  not  a  Hurdicott  in  vain. 

Monypenny  danced  two  dances  with  her.  Once  they  stood 
by  an  open  window,  where  the  fresh  air  could  blow  on  them. 
She  glanced  out  at  the  looming  faces,  still  curiously  prowling 
in  the  night,  and  he  found  himself  telling  her  about  the  America 
Ground  and  his  struggles  with  it,  passing  thence  to  his  ambition 
for  the  town.  She  listened  and  smiled,  but  he  knew  that  his 
confidences  must  seem  very  remote.  The  strange  thing  was 
that  while  he  had  disliked  talking  of  such  matters  to  Vidler, 
he  should  want  to  discuss  them  with  this  creature,  who  belonged 
to  the  woods,  except  when,  in  fugitive  moments  like  these,  she 
suddenly  became  a  spirit  of  festivity,  artificiality,  tinsel  and 
riot.  He  dragged  himself  away  from  borough  affairs. 

"What  does  M.  mean?"  he  asked,  looking  down  at  her  breast, 
where  a  small  M.  of  pearls  crept  into  the  lace  like  a  secret. 

"It's  for  Morgan — my  name." 

"Morgan — That's  an  odd  name  for  a  girl." 

"Mrs.  Becket  told  me  it  was  a  fancy  of  my  mamma's.  She'd 
been  reading  a  book  and  wanted  me  called  after  someone  in 
it." 

"Morgan  le  Fay,  perhaps." 

"Who  was  Morgan  le  Fay?" 

"King  Arthur's  sister,  an  enchantress." 

"I  like  being  called  after  an  enchantress.  Was  she  very 
wicked  and  very  beautiful?" 

The  question  amused  him,  and  he  smiled. 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  61 

"The  legend  says  that  she  was  both.  She  enchanted  the 
King's  sword,  so  that  he  lost  the  battle." 

Morgan  laughed  and  looked  pleased.  The  next  minute  the 
music  stopped,  and  he  took  her  back  to  Lady  Cockstreet. 

That  dawn,  when  he  lay  down  for  a  few  hours'  sleep,  he 
dreamed  a  queer  dream  of  her — that  she  had  come  to  the  ball 
in  her  old  gown,  with  leaves  stuck  in  her  hair,  and  had  dis- 
graced him. 

§  4 

Morgan  Wells  woke  at  the  usual  time,  in  spite  of  the  strange 
time  she  had  gone  to  bed.  Her  restless  spirit  called  her  out 
of  sleep,  dancing  her  to  and  fro. 

As  she  dressed  she  reviewed  the  joys  of  the  night.  She  had 
enjoyed  every  moment,  or  rather  she  enjoyed  every  moment 
now,  for  at  the  time  there  had  been  weariness  and  antipathies. 
Now  all  such  were  hazed  over  with  the  golden  glow  of  the  last 
hours,  when  she  had  danced  with  Monypenny  and  been  admired 
of  him. 

She  knew  that  he  had  admired  her,  though  he  had  not  spoken 
a  word  of  his  admiration.  She  knew  that  she  had  succeeded, 
that  all  her  thoughts  and  pains,  all  her  spendings,  had  been 
justified.  She  sang  to  herself  as  she  stood  before  the  glass 
brushing  her  hair,  then  she  danced  a  few  steps  of  the  mazurka, 
winding  up  with  an  odd  little  skip.  She  dressed  more  carefully 
than  usual,  and  arranged  her  hair  in  a  modified  form  of  last 
night's  style.  She  had  looked  quite  genteel  last  night,  she  told 
herself,  and  a  faint  perfume  still  clung  to  her  skin,  making  her 
feel  happy  and  languorous,  filling  her  with  dreams. 

The  children  found  her  absent-minded  as  she  dressed  and 
taught  them.  But  also  she  was  softer  and  gentler  than  usual, 
and  when  little  Charlotte  begged  her  for  a  story,  she  did  not 
tell  her  not  to  plague  her  life  out,  or  mockingly  oblige  with 
Jack-a-Manory,  but  told  her  and  the  others  a  wonderful  tale 
about  an  enchantress  called  Morgan  le  Fay,  who  could  work  all 


62  TAMARISK  TOWN 

sorts  of  spells,  turn  towns  into  woods  and  castles  into  mush- 
rooms, and  people  into  seashore  pebbles,  and  at  last  was  able 
to  bewitch  the  great  king  himself,  so  that  he  gave  her  his  magic 
sword. 

The  end  of  the  story  was  rather  vague,  and  the  children  be- 
gan to  interrupt. 

"How  funny  her  name  was  Morgan!"  said  Arthur — "it's  the 
same  as  yours." 

Miss  Wells  laughed,  and  looked  out  at  a  tamarisk  making  a 
mock-summer  with  its  green  against  the  January  sky. 

"Perhaps  I'm  an  enchantress,  too." 

"What  rubbish!    There  are  no  such  things." 

"Yes,  there  are." 

"There  aren't." 

"There  are." 

"Well,  if  you're  an  enchantress,  what  have  you  enchanted?" 

"Lots  of  things — lots  of  people." 

"What?" 

Miss  Wells  laughed. 

"I've  enchanted  this  town.  It  isn't  a  real  town,  you  know — 
it's  all  tamarisk  trees,  and  I  made  them  into  a  town.  One 
day  I  shall  wave  my  wand,  and  it  will  become  tamarisks  again." 

"Rubbish,"  said  Arthur. 

"Wave  it!     Wave  it!"  cried  Louise. 

"Not  yet,"  said  Miss  Wells. 

That  afternoon  she  told  them  she  was  going  to  take  them  for 
a  long  walk.  They  set  out  up  Cuckoo  Hill,  and  then  across 
Spitalman's  Down  to  where  a  little  path  winds  back  to  the 
seashore.  Morgan  wanted  to  go  to  the  America  Ground,  but 
there  were  objections  to  her  entering  it  boldly  from  the  town 
end.  It  was  a  long  walk,  but  at  first  the  children  enjoyed  it, 
for  they  were  still  playing  at  "enchantments."  Morgan  had  to 
tell  them  what  everything  they  saw  was  in  reality,  before  she 
had  waved  her  wand  over  it — for  instance  how  the  fat 
grey  sheep  cropping  at  the  scanty  winter  turf  were  the  Mayor 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  63 

and  Corporation  of  Marlingate,  whom  she  had  turned  into 
sheep  till  she  came  back  to  the  town — "for  of  course  it's  only 
tamarisk  trees  now  I'm  away,  and  I  don't  want  them  to  notice 
anything."  The  sparrows  hopping  and  twittering  in  the  skew- 
blown  thornbushes  were  the  children  that  played  in  the  Mar- 
lingate streets.  On  the  barest  spot  of  the  Down  she  stopped 
and  told  them  that  they  were  in  a  fine  lady's  drawing-room,  and 
that  what  they  took  for  stones  and  gorse-thickets  were  really 
sofas  and  chairs — "and  there's  a  carpet  on  the  floor  all  over 
big  roses." 

This  worked  very  well  for  a  time,  then  the  children  grew 
tired  and  bored.  Arthur  said  "Rubbish!"  and  Charlotte  said 
"I  wan'er  go  home."  Morgan  was  resolved  not  to  go  back  the 
way  they  had  come.  She  hustled  her  charges  down  the  steep 
cliff  path,  telling  them  it  was  a  "short  cut,"  though  she  knew 
it  was  two  miles  longer.  She  vowed  at  all  costs  to  visit  the 
America  Ground,  for  last  night  at  the  ball  Monypenny  had  told 
her  he  meant  to  go  there  that  afternoon. 

Her  cheeks  were  hot  and  her  eyes  gleaming.  She  did  not 
feel  the  cold  wind  blowing  through  her  shawl,  or  notice  the 
twilight  dropping  on  the  sea.  She  hurried  the  children  along 
the  sea-road  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  which  in  summer  was 
beautiful  with  sea-pink  and  the  yellow-horned  poppy  and  the 
white  campions  with  their  huge  puffed  seed-boxes,  but  this 
afternoon  was  bare  save  for  the  rough  shingle  rolled  over  it 
by  the  storms.  The  sea  was  like  a  moon-stone,  grey  and 
gleaming,  unrippled  by  the  off-shore  wind,  and  the  beach  swept 
down  to  it  in  stony  hillocks,  its  speckled  pinks  and  blues  washed 
by  the  dull  light  into  a  prevailing  dun. 

Morgan  walked  quickly,  for  she  feared  that  she  might  be 
late.  The  children  lagged  peevishly,  and  she  had  difficulty  in 
keeping  them  to  her  pace.  At  last,  round  a  jut  of  the  cliff,  she 
saw  the  America  Ground,  a  disarray  of  inverted  hulls  and  beg- 
garly shacks.  She  told  the  children  it  was  really  a  beautiful 
city  which  she  had  bewitched,  but  the  game  had  finally  palled, 


64  TAMARISK  TOWN 

and  Charlotte  and  Louisa  were  openly  in  tears  when  they  came 
to  the  boundary  of  clothes-lines. 

"I  wan'er  go  home,"  wailed  Charlotte. 

"We  are  going  home.    This  is  the  quickest  way." 

"It  isn't." 

"It  is." 

"  "Tisn't." 

"It  is,  I  tell  you." 

They  were  not  a  party  to  enter  the  lawless  city  without  at- 
tracting notice.  A  beautiful  young  woman  with  her  hair 
dressed  in  the  latest  Paris  fashion,  a  trifle  disarrayed  by  the 
wind,  four  unhappy  children  in  tow,  two  of  whom  were  crying 
loudly,  would  rouse  comment  even  in  a  civilised  street.  The 
America  Ground  was  not  civilised.  It  stood  in  the  same  rela- 
tion to  Marlingate  as  an  animal  stands  to  a  human  being.  It 
had  many  of  its  appetites,  but  few  of  its  habits.  The  place 
was  full  of  a  kind  of  savage  squalor.  Inverted  hulks  studded 
the  shingle,  their  sides  peeled  by  the  wind  and  scabbed  by  the 
sun,  while  from  their  bursting  seams  as  well  as  from  their  chim- 
neys poured  the  smoke  of  malodorous  cooking.  Most  of  the 
dwellings  were  old  boats,  but  there  were  also  a  few  shacks,  built 
of  the  spars  of  wrecks,  slopped  over  with  tar  which  hung  in  inky 
pendules  from  their  eaves,  and  rose  in  a  bubble-up  of  black 
blisters  from  their  walls.  There  was  a  shop,  where  one  could 
buy  little  more  than  long  dark  pickled  slices  of  a  fish  known 
locally  as  Robin  Huss;  there  were  fishermen's  stores,  and  sev- 
eral gin-shops  already  filling  up  with  men  in  jerseys  and  ear- 
rings. Two  of  these  screamed  out  at  Morgan.  One  or  two 
women  came  out  to  stare,  and  coupled  their  indignation  at  her 
treatment  of  the  children  with  most  unwarrantable  conjectures 
as  to  her  morals.  Then  an  old  fisherman  mending  a  net  swore 
at  Charlotte  and  Louisa  for  making  a  dirty  noise.  Ragged 
children  made  rude  remarks  about  Arthur  and  James.  In  time 
a  little  crowd  was  following  them. 

All  this  while  there  was  not  a  sign  of  Monypenny.    Morgan 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  65 

did  not  dare  make  any  enquiries;  she  hurried  on,  disconcert- 
ingly aware  that  she  had  not  the  slightest  idea  of  her  way  out 
of  this  abominable  place.  She,. was  lost  in  a  mess  of  evil- 
smelling  tracks,  winding  in  and  out  of  sheds  and  dwellings,  of 
pig-styes,  stables,  fishermen's  stores,  old  boats,  and  a  regular 
entanglement  of  clothes-lines.  Everywhere  she  saw  nothing  but 
dark  faces,  slatternly  women  with  their  hair  upon  their  shoul- 
ders, children  dirty  and  verminous,  workmen  from  the  Parade 
and  waterworks,  home  after  their  day's  toil  and  beginning  the 
evening's  soak. 

"Show  you  your  way  out,  lady?"  said  a  dark,  gipsy-looking 
man  with  crinkled  hair. 

Morgan  shook  her  head  and  hurried  on. 

"I'll  show  you  your  way  out  in  five  minutes  if  you'll  give 
me  the  little  gal's  locket." 

"I  know  my  way,"  muttered  Morgan  desperately. 

She  seized  the  now  screaming  Charlotte  by  the  hand.  At  the 
same  time  the  young  man  snatched  the  locket  and  broke  the 
chain.  The  next  moment  he  had  disappeared,  and  Morgan, 
blanched  with  fright,  found  herself  the  centre  of  a  villainous 
crowd  which  had  ringed  round  her,  evidently  to  prevent  her  fol- 
lowing him.  She  thought  she  was  going  to  faint — a  mist  swam 
before  her — she  felt  the  children  tearing  at  her  skirts  .  .  .  then 
suddenly  the  crowd  seemed  to  melt  away  like  a  marsh-steam, 
and  she  realised  that  she  was  standing  face  to  face  with  Mony- 
penny. 

"What — what  on  earth  are  you  doing  here?" 

She  began  to  laugh  hysterically. 

"I — I — oh,  I  don't  know — I  lost  my  way — I  was  trying  to 
get  home." 

"Come  with  me,"  said  Monypenny. 

She  followed  him  through  the  sheds  to  a  rope-walk  beyond 
which  lay  the  open  beach  and  the  unfinished  parade.  She  was 
trembling,  partly  from  fear  at  her  adventure,  partly  from 
the  joy  of  having  met  him.  She  hoped  he  would  walk  back 


66  TAMARISK  TOWN 

with  them  to  the  town,  but  when  they  came  to  the  boundaries 
of  the  America  Ground  he  stopped  abruptly. 

"You're  quite  safe  now,  and  you  can  see  the  Coney  Banks 
from  here." 

She  stood  looking  up  at  him,  as  she  had  looked  at  the  ball, 
but  this  time  there  was  no  answer  in  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Monypenny,  I'm  so  grateful  to  you.  I  don't 
know  what  we  should  have  done  if  you  hadn't  come." 

To  her  dismay  the  line  of  his  mouth  grew  stern. 

"No,  and  I  don't  know  either.  It  was  a  most  rash  thing  to 
do.  This  is  no  place  to  bring  children  to,  and  I'm  sure  Mr. 
Becket  would  be  highly  displeased  if  he  knew  of  it." 

Morgan's  face  grew  white,  and  she  bit  her  lip  painfully. 
Her  dreams  were  toppling  about  her  ears,  and  as  they  fell 
her  anger  rose  and  flamed.  He  looked  on  her  just  as  a  govern- 
ess, whom  he  could  reprimand  for  lack  of  duty  to  her  em- 
ployer. Her  adventure  had  ended  in  a  rebuke — she  was  no 
Morgan  le  Fay  to  him,  just  a  mean  little  governess,  after  all. 
She  turned  without  speaking  and  hurried  away  with  her  charges 
who  noticed,  to  complete  the  terrors  of  the  day,  that  the  tears 
were  trickling  and  splashing  down  her  face. 

§  5 

She  walked  quickly,  her  head  bent,  her  arms  rigid  against 
her  sides.  Ahead  of  her  Marlingate  swam  in  the  grey  twilight, 
with  that  strange  appearance  of  wind  which  sometimes  affects 
even  the  unshaken  masses  of  roofs  and  streets.  She  scarcely 
saw  it,  or  the  sea-road  along  which  she  stumbled,  so  thick  was 
the  sorrow  in  her  eyes  and  the  rage  in  her  heart.  The  children 
called  to  her  to  go  more  slowly,  but  she  did  not  heed  them. 

So  Monypenny  despised  her.  He  had  taken  some  notice 
of  her  when  she  was  well  dressed,  and  perhaps  he  was  sorry 
for  her  with  her  few  partners;  but  he  had  never  really  admired 
her,  she  had  never  been  to  him  for  an  instant  what  he  had  been 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  67 

and  was  still  to  her.  Her  throat  felt  dry  and  tight,  the  un- 
uttered  sobs  in  her  breast  lay  heavy  there,  like  stones.  He 
looked  upon  her  only  as  a  governess,  a  paid  servant.  He  had 
not  troubled  about  her  own  distress  and  danger,  merely  her 
employer's  disapproval  and  the  risk  to  which  she  had  put  his 
children.  Little  Charlotte  was  crying 

"I  wan'  my  locket." 

"Be  quiet,"  said  Morgan  roughly. 

She  could  not  bear  anything  that  took  her  thoughts  away 
from  Monypenny.  They  were  fixed  on  him  in  a  blind  concen- 
tration of  desire.  He  was  strong  and  young  and  handsome — • 
the  man  she  wanted.  She  had  wanted  him  from  the  first  mo- 
ment she  had  seen  him.  It  was  the  passion  of  a  creature  inex- 
perienced, unawakened,  and  at  the  same  time  merciless  to  itself 
and  others  in  its  cravings,  proud  with  the  reckless  pride  that 
only  the  half-civilised  can  know.  Morgan's  passion  had  in  it 
the  goad  of  hate,  which  urged  it  on  to  action.  She  vowed  to 
herself  that  she  would  break  his  pride,  that  the  day  should 
come  when  he  should  look  down  on  her  no  longer,  but  seek 
her  out  and  plead  with  her  for  herself. 

She  would  not  deny  him.  For  at  the  bottom  of  all  her  rage 
and  hunger  was  her  love  for  him.  It  was  an  unreasonable  love, 
sprung  almost  entirely  out  of  externals,  but  now  pulling  from 
the  very  roots  of  her  heart.  She  loved  him  through  his  very 
humiliation  of  her,  while  all  the  time  she  vowed  to  punish  him 
for  it.  "He  shall  love  me,"  she  told  herself,  as  she  came  to  the 
grey,  wind-musicked  town — and  his  love  should  be  both  her 
revenge  and  her  reward. 

§  6 

The  Town  Committee  was  anxious  that  theJParade  should  be 
finished  by  the  beginning  of  the  summer  season.  The  work 
had  gone  briskly  from  the  first,  and  by  the  early  spring  the  sea- 
front  of  Marlingate  was  transformed.  The  quaintness  and  mel- 


68  TAMARISK  TOWN 

lowness  had  disappeared — the  old  sea-wall  with  its  odd  occa- 
sional growths  of  roof  and  house-front,  the  strand  where  the 
tamarisk  trees  streamed  like  green  pennons  northeastward 
from  the  wind  and  the  black  hulls  of  the  fishing-smacks  lay 
moored  between  the  tides.  But  in  their  place  was  something 
not  unbeautiful,  not  without  its  part  in  the  rambling  pictur- 
esqueness  of  the  town. 

Decimus  Figg  had  striven  to  combine  his  duty  to  Monypenny 
as  his  patron  with  his  duty  to  Marlingate  as  his  inspiration. 
It  was  not  such  a  difficult  matter  as  if,  instead  of  Monypenny, 
had  been  the  Town  Committee  with  its  neo-Gothic  visions,  and 
memories  of  the  Steyn.  Monypenny  was  anxious  for  the  con- 
tinuity of  Marlingate  to  be  preserved,  even  if  at  the  same  time 
he  had  unfortunate  yearnings  for  the  crystalline.  Figg  had 
imagined  a  Parade  of  gleaming  whiteness,  which  should  shine 
out  like  the  Gates  of  Pearl  to  voyagers  on  the  sea,  a  white 
shining  line  from  Cuckoo  Hill  to  All  Holland  Hill,  shutting 
away  the  tumbled  blacks  and  reds  of  the  streets,  which  should 
flower  behind  its  whiteness  like  poppies  in  an  alabaster  bowl. 
His  houses  stood  plain  and  serene  in  one  long  facade,  with 
square  windows  and  quaintly  columned  doors.  The  parade  had 
a  look  of  unhewn  massiveness,  snow-white  like  the  rest,  yet 
boasting  of  its  strength  against  the  wave-shocks,  proclaiming 
itself  not  only  the  walk  of  fashion  but  the  block  and  barrier  of 
storms. 

Monypenny  was  pleased,  for  though  it  was  not  exactly  the 
Parade  of  his  dreams,  he  saw  its  efficiency  as  a  compromise  be- 
tween them  and  the  requirements  of  Marlingate.  He  had 
known  all  along  that  what  he  had  pictured  could  never  quite 
be  realised — he  was  growing  used  to  that  sense  of  "beyondness" 
which  seemed  to  attaint  his  ideals  for  the  town. 

His  fellow  workers  troubled  him  little — it  was  characteristic 
of  him  that  he  had  already  begun  to  ignore  them.  His  es- 
tates gave  him  the  advantage,  and  he  had  contrived  to  establish 
a  tacit  superiority  in  matters  aesthetic.  In  finance  he  was  more 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  69 

ready  to  take  counsel — indeed  he  had  left  the  Borough  Loan 
almost  entirely  to  Becket,  Lewnes  and  Lusted — but  the  decora- 
tion and  polishing  of  Marlingate  had  been  handed  over  to  him 
unreservedly;  a  casual  talk  with  Pelham  in  which  he  laid  down 
his  plans,  the  occasional  pretence  of  consulting  Becket  which 
his  indebtedness  demanded,  a  few  dry  announcements  at  Town 
Committee  meetings,  were  his  sole  acknowledgment  of  the  fact 
that  Marlingate  did  not  belong  to  him.  So  far  his  attitude  was 
accepted  by  the  others.  He  saved  them  a  lot  of  trouble,  and 
at  the  same  time  gave  them  ample  proof  of  his  capabilities.  The 
stupidest  of  them  was  forced  to  own  that  he  had  the  best  brains 
in  the  town — he  also  had  the  best  house,  the  best  clothes,  the 
best  breeding.  In  odd  moments,  away  from  him,  Lewnes  or 
Breeds  or  Lusted  might  suddenly  remember  that  he  was  only 
twenty-nine,  but  would  forget  it  at  once  when  he  saw  him 
face  to  face — cold,  youthless,  saturnine,  more  like  some  old 
man  who  by  dint  of  training  and  contrivance  still  managed  to 
look  young,  than  the  boy  he  was  in  fact. 

Nearly  every  day  he  came  down  to  the  Parade,  and  walked 
along  it  from  its  beginnings  at  the  base  of  All  Holland  Hill, 
to  its  end  within  a  few  yards  of  the  America  Ground.  The 
Gut'g  Mouth  Brook  had  been  bridged  by  a  reculver,  and  just 
beyond  this  was  a  large  semi-circular  bay,  where  later  on  a 
band-stand  would  be  erected.  The  old  sea-road  was  even  now 
being  macadamised,  so  that  by  summer  an  elegant  carriage- 
drive  should  be  ready  for  the  visitors  who  would  live  and  lodge 
behind  that  gleaming  fagade,  low  and  white  like  some  long 
palace  of  the  Medici. 

One  morning  early  in  April,  Monypenny  was  watching  the 
railings  being  put  up  at  the  edge  of  the  promenade,  when 
glancing  landwards,  he  saw  the  Becket  children  walking  with 
their  governess  on  the  other  side  of  the  road.  He  had  not  met 
any  of  them  since  his  encounter  on  the  America  Ground.  Now 
that  he  saw  them  it  struck  him  as  odd  that  he  had  not  seen 
them  for  so  long.  It  is  true  that  he  had  been  extremely  busy, 


7o  TAMARISK  TOWN 

and  also  that  the  whole  family  had  been  away  for  a  month, 
visiting  an  aunt  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  but  in  a  small  place  like 
Marlingate  people  were  always  meeting,  unless  they  deliberately 
avoided  one  another. 

Then  he  realised  that  this  was  probably  what  Miss  Wells 
had  tried  to  do.  That  afternoon  on  the  America  Ground  he 
had  spoken  sharply — he  had  been  indignant  at  her  reckless- 
ness and  incompetence,  and  had  not  attempted  to  hide  his  feel- 
ings. He  understood  now  that  this  must  have  been  exceedingly 
painful  to  her,  especially  on  the  day  after  the  ball,  at  which 
he  had  admired  her  and  treated  her  as  a  friend.  An  uncomfor- 
table flush  went  up  to  Monypenny's  white  hair.  For  some 
reason  he  saw  his  behaviour  as  intolerable,  though  it  had  never 
struck  him  before  in  that  light.  He  had  treated  her  like  the 
little  governess  she  was,  forgetting  that  she  had  been  something 
very  different  in  the  woods  and  at  the  ball.  A  vague  irrita- 
tion possessed  him — why  must  she  alternate  her  moods  of  wood- 
elf  and  great  lady  with  a  third  as  baffling  as  either?  As  if  it 
were  not  confusing  enough  to  meet  a  dryad  all  powdered  and 
tight-laced  in  a  ball-room,  must  he  be  still  further  confounded 
by  meeting  her  crying  in  the  nursery? 

They  were  opposite  him  now,  on  the  other  side  of  the  road. 
His  feelings  of  compunction  once  more  predominant,  he  took 
off  his  hat  and  made  her  a  low,  expiatory  bow.  He  also  moved 
a  step  or  two  across  the  road,  then  stopped  baffled.  With  a 
very  slight  inclination  of  the  head  she  had  walked  quickly  on, 
though  obviously  aware  of  his  intention  to  cross.  He  had 
made  sure  that  she  would  be  delighted  to  see  him,  reassured 
and  gratified  by  his  friendliness.  Instead  of  which  she  did  not 
even  smile,  merely  walked  on  with  a  bare  acknowledgment  of 
his  salute.  Monypenny  bit  his  lip.  A  dart  of  anger  went  into 
his  heart  and  stabbed  through  to  the  boy.  He  would  not  be 
flouted  by  her  in  public,  he  would  go  after  her  and  make  her 
speak  to  him — he  did  not  care  if  it  was  impulsive  and  undigni- 
fied. The  workmen  on  the  Parade  were  surprised  to  see  their 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  71 

stately  task-master  suddenly  dash  off  after  a  woman  and  four 
children  who  had  just  turned  the  corner  of  the  High  Street. 

Morgan  turned  round  as  he  came  up.  Her  look  was  one  of 
cold  enquiry,  veiling  a  challenge. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said  rather  breathlessly — "it's  such  a 
long  time  since  I've  seen  any  of  you,  that  I  hope  you  will  forgive 
me  for  running  after  you  to  ask  how  you  are." 

"We're  very  well,  thank  you." 

"And  Mr.  Becket?    Has  he  gone  back  to  London  yet?" 

"No.    There  is  a  Town  Committee  meeting  today." 

Monypenny  darkened  with  anger  at  his  slip,  and  her  aware- 
ness of  it.  Something  in  her  manner  had  disorganised  him, 
and  he  was  fumbling  like  a  school-boy.  She  made  a  movement 
as  if  she  would  walk  on,  and  he  searched  desperately  for  a 
pretext  to  detain  her.  It  was  at  his  elbow — the  confec- 
tioner's shop  into  which  the  young  Beckets,  during  this  dis- 
course of  their  elders,  were  hungrily  gazing. 

"Do  you  young  people  like  tarts?" 

"Oh,  yes,  thank  you — " 

"Then  come  in  and  eat  as  many  as  you  can  manage." 

"No  eating  between  meals,"  began  Miss  Wells,  but  the  Becket 
family  hurled  itself  into  the  shop,  and  Monypenny  gave  her  a 
look  which  said  "My  trick! " 

Very  soon  they  were  all  seated  round  a  marble-topped  table, 
Monypenny  opposite  the  governess,  who  in  spite  of  her  dignity 
had  chosen  a  very  unwholesome-looking  pink  cake. 

"This  is  jolly,"  said  Arthur.  "Mr.  Monypenny  is  a  brick." 

"Dear  Mr.  Mullypelly,"  gurgled  Louisa,  and  Charlotte  slid 
a  sticky  hand  into  his. 

Monypenny  felt  out  of  place  and  ridiculous,  and  his  self- 
consciousness  was  increased  by  his  conviction  that  Miss  Wells 
was  laughing  at  him.  What  was  the  terrible  little  creature's 
game?  Why  had  she  suddenly  put  on  these  airs,  and  why  was 
she  laughing  at  him  now?  He  looked  across  at  her  as  she  sat 
eating  her  cake,  and  tried  to  imagine  how  he  had  ever  seen 


72  TAMARISK  TOWN 

either  wildness  or  worldliness  in  this  absurd  grown-up  child. 
Then  suddenly  as  he  looked  at  her,  she  lifted  her  eyes,  and  her 
glance  crept  over  him,  slow,  melting,  sensuous,  under  the  wink- 
ing shadow  of  her  lashes.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  be  drawing  him 
into  their  depths,  sucking  him  down  into  themselves  like  two 
treacherous  whirlpools  of  untroubled  surface  and  devouring 
heart.  At  the  same  time  her  lips  parted,  seemed  to  grow  fuller, 
redder,  suddenly  dangerous.  .  .  . 

Monypenny  rose  to  his  feet.  His  head  was  going  round. 
He  went  a  few  steps  towards  the  door,  then  clumsily  pulled  out 
his  watch,  and  mumbled  something  about  an  appointment. 
Then  he  remembered  he  had  left  his  hat  under  his  chair;  for 
one  wild  moment  he  thought  of  going  without  it,  but  he  was 
able  to  recover  himself  sufficiently  to  go  back  and  fetch  it, 
bow  to  Miss  Wells,  and  finally  make  his  escape.  As  he  shut 
the  door  he  heard  her  laugh,  but  it  was  not  till  he  was  half-way 
up  the  street  that  he  realised  what  an  utter  fool  she  had  made 
of  him. 

§  7 

For  some  days  afterwards  he  felt  ruffled  and  disconcerted, 
and  made  up  his  mind  in  future  to  avoid  Miss  Wells.  She 
had  affronted  his  shyness,  and  he  was  too  inexperienced  in 
these  new  ways  to  realise  that  a  creature  of  such  transparent 
artifice  was  scarcely  to  be  dreaded.  Sometimes  he  asked  him- 
self a  question  beginning  "Was  it  possible  that  .  .  .  ?"  then, 
before  he  had  finished  asking  it,  choked  it  down  with  the 
answer,  "No,  it  couldn't  be."  The  idea  was  preposterous,  and 
due  to  the  foolish  state  into  which  for  some  unaccountable 
reason  she  had  plunged  him.  He  rushed  his  mind  into  muni- 
cipal affairs  like  a  hunted  animal  burrowing  into  the  earth  for 
safety.  Under  the  comfortable,  solid  bricks  of  Marlingate  he 
would  bury  this  new  disquiet;  Miss  Wells  should  have  no 
more  chances  of  twisting  and  troubling  a  respectable  Alder- 
man's life. 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  73 

Marlingate  was  now  busily  preparing  for  the  summer  season. 
Advance  bookings  were  good,  and  several  of  the  new  houses 
on  the  Parade  had  been  let.  Up  behind  the  town,  Becket  Grove 
was  patching  the  rim  of  the  woods  with  unexpected  roofs. 
Here  Decimus  Figg  had  become  rural,  and  built  with  the  huge 
roof-spreads  he  had  noticed  on  farm-houses  inland,  and  the  flat 
latticed  windows  that  had  been  knocked  out  of  nearly  every  old 
house  in  Marlingate  to  make  room  for  the  Alderman-like  bows 
that  Lusted  loved. 

Encouraged  by  the  letting  of  these  villas,  Monypenny  planned 
building  larger  ones,  just  off  Rye  Lane,  on  the  slope  of 
All  Holland  Hill.  There  was  no  doubt  that  Marlingate  was  at- 
tracting a  "superior"  set  of  visitors,  the  kind  which  is  always 
on  the  verge  of  becoming  resident,  which  seldom  takes  lodgings 
for  less  than  six  weeks,  and  spends  more  on  its  comforts  than 
on  its  amusements.  To  a  certain  extent  this  was  due  to  Becket 
but  he  had  done  little  more  than  start  things.  Monypenny  flat- 
tered himself  that  the  town's  success  with  this  "superior"  class 
was  because  it  was  itself  "superior" — in  position,  climate,  scen- 
ery, accommodation,  and  entertainment.  There  was  nothing 
cheap  or  makeshift  about  it,  nothing  of  the  pushing,  imperma- 
nent, mushroom  town.  There  was  nothing  fast  or  showy,  no 
cardboard  attempts  to  reproduce  the  gaieties  and  conveniences 
of  London.  It  was  solid  and  respectable,  without  being  heavy  or 
bourgeois.  The  houses  both  old  and  new  were  well-built,  and 
into  the  bargain  the  old  were  picturesque  and  the  new  were 
elegant.  There  was  no  attempt  to  increase  enormously  the 
borough's  area — Monypenny  was  resolved  only  to  build  such 
houses  as  he  could  afford  to  build  well  and  be  sure  of  letting  to 
the  best  people.  There  was  no  sign  of  that  slum-hinterland 
which  so  generally  springs  up  behind  a  prosperous  seaside  re- 
sort— the  America  Ground,  it  is  true,  still  flourished,  but  was 
doomed,  for  the  Commission  of  Woods  and  Forests  had  now 
turned  their  eye  upon  it,  and  no  doubt  in  the  slow-grinding  of 
their  mills  it  would  one  day  be  ground  exceeding  small. 


74  TAMARISK  TOWN 

The  water-works  were  nearly  finished,  and  the  Parade  was 
quite  so.  The  band-stand  was  now  begun,  and  a  band  had  been 
engaged.  There  had  been  a  good  deal  of  discussion  in  the 
Borough  Council  as  to  whether  shops  should  be  allowed  on  the 
sea-front.  Lewnes,  Lusted,  Vidler,  and  all  the  tradesmen 
members  were  anxious  to  have  them,  but  Monypenny  opposed 
them  with  his  whole  power.  The  place  would  deteriorate  at 
once,  he  said,  if  the  Parade  became  a  shopping  thoroughfare; 
it  was  to  be  a  garden,  an  enclosure  of  beauty,  no  mart  or  forum 
of  trade-competition.  That  long  white  facade  was  to  be  in- 
violate of  plate  glass  or  painted  sign.  There  was  plenty  of 
room  for  shops  in  the  High  Street,  where  Lewnes's  estab- 
lishment was  undergoing  staggering  embellishments  in  view 
of  the  coming  season.  On  the  sea-front  itself  he  was  allowing 
a  Marine  Arcade,  which  combined  a  tasteful  exposition  of  fancy 
goods  with  a  collection  of  "Wonders  of  the  Deep,"  altogether 
a  select  and  beautiful  undertaking. 

§8 

Meanwhile  triumph  prevailed  in  the  enemy's  camp.  Mor- 
gan Wells  knew  that  she  had  been  successful.  She  made  no 
attempt  to  review  the  series  of  blunders  whch  had  somehow 
tumbled  her  into  her  heart's  desire — they  seemed  rather  fine 
tactics  to  her  now.  Nor  did  she  analyse  the  exact  quality  of 
her  attainment.  All  she  knew  was  that  she  had  managed  to 
make  a  fool  of  Monypenny,  and  being  a  fool  was  a  good 
preliminary  to  being  a  lover. 

It  would  soon  be  time,  however,  to  pass  from  preliminaries 
to  the  actual  business,  and  that  might  not  be  so  easy.  This 
occurred  to  her  after  a  week  or  two,  during  which  she  did  not 
meet  Monypenny  even  once.  It  was  of  course  perfectly  easy 
for  him  to  avoid  her;  he  was  in  a  very  different  position  from 
what  hers  would  have  been  if  it  were  he  who  pursued — he 
could  have  come  in  contact  with  her  on  a  dozen  pretexts, 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  75 

whereas  there  was  none  which  a  little  governess  could  make 
for  seeking  out  the  chief  Alderman  of  Marlingate.  All  she 
could  do  was  to  hover  round  the  places  where  she  was  most 
likely  to  meet  him,  and  she  noticed  that  he  seemed  to  have 
left  his  old  haunts.  He  never  came  to  the  Parade  now  that 
the  workmen  were  gone,  and  the  band  played  there  instead 
of  the  music  of  hammer  and  pick.  She  had  heard  from  Becket 
that  the  America  Ground  business  was  temporarily  settled, 
and  anyhow  she  would  not  have  dared  seek  him  there  again. 
Sometimes  she  went  up  with  her  charges  to  where  Becket 
Grove  was  crushing  the  spring  out  of  the  woods;  but  he  was 
not  there.  She  could  never  find  him.  Yet  the  town  was  full 
of  him;  she  heard  his  name  on  everyone's  lips;  she  was  told 
of  his  presence  at  Council  and  Committee,  at  concerts,  card- 
parties,  balls,  and  other  places  from  which  she  was  shut  out. 
She  knew  that  he  must  be  avoiding  her,  and  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent the  knowledge  made  her  pleased  and  proud.  But  it  also 
gave  her  a  strange  sense  of  helplessness,  for  it  was  an  atti- 
tude he  could  maintain  indefinitely;  it  was  not  as  if  she  were 
some  society  woman  whom  he  was  bound  to  meet  sooner  or 
later.  He  could  avoid  her  for  ever  if  he  chose. 

Had  there  been  time  and  opportunity,  she  might  have  played 
her  old  game  of  avoiding  him  herself.  She  saw  now  that  it 
had  been  one  of  her  best  points  of  strategy — it  had  piqued 
him,  and  goaded  him  at  last  to  pursuit.  But  she  had  no  means 
of  making  her  avoidance  effective  or  even  noticeable,  and 
early  in  June  she  was  to  go  with  Becket  and  the  children  to 
Scotlaid,  where  one  of  his  sisters  was  married  to  a  Glasgow 
ship-owner  and  had  a  summer  villa  at  Rothesay.  There  was 
only  May  in  which  to  work,  and  May  was  slipping  by  in  a 
procession  of  golden  hopes  all  unfulfilled. 

The  long  tender  days,  with  their  drowse  of  sun  and  sea, 
the  evenings  of  gold  and  amethyst  when  the  sirens  crooned 
in  the  fogs,  were  thick  with  a  promise  she  only  half  under- 
stood, an  aching  incompleteness,  a  sense  of  unfulfilment 


76  TAMARISK  TOWN 

which  seemed  one  with  the  hunger  of  her  heart.  Nature  in 
its  hot,  lush  maturity,  its  thick  fecundity,  its  heavy-aired 
consummation,  was  somehow  drawn  by  her  to  be  part  of  her 
own  craving  and  emptiness,  till  she  saw  it  only  in  the  light 
of  her  desire,  and  flowering  grass  and  dancing  flies  and  mated 
birds  and  teeming  sea,  and  all  the  contentment  of  the  fer- 
tile thundery  air,  were  thrilled  through  with  the  sadness  of 
human  love,  with  the  ache  of  her  empty  arms  and  uncherished 
lips,  till  she  felt  as  if  Monypenny  himself  must  see  the  torrent 
of  the  long,  hushed  evenings  that  brooded  over  his  town. 

Her  want  of  him  had  passed  into  a  second  definite  stage. 
At  first  it  had  been  compounded  of  resentment  and  admira- 
tion, now  somehow  both  these  had  been  transmuted  into  more 
subtle  essences.  In  the  place  of  resentment  was  a  heavy  sick- 
ness of  soul,  and  in  the  place  of  admiration  the  fever  of 
that  sickness.  Her  brain  seemed  to  have  lost  its  powers  of 
planning — she  could  only  drift,  yet  never  before  had  her  de- 
sire been  more  imperative;  in  the  Winter  it  had  been  some- 
thing outside  herself,  something  she  could  mould  with  imag- 
inings and  feed  with  dreams — now  it  belonged  to  the  deep- 
est, most  secret  parts  of  her  being,  it  had  become  the  potter 
of  her  clay,  and  could  be  quieted  only  by  love  or  by  death. 

The  weeks  passed,  and  June  had  come.  Then  she  had  a 
feeble  spurt  of  hope.  The  children  had  been  promised  a 
farewell  picnic  before  leaving  Marlingate,  and  it  struck  her 
that  it  might  be  possible  to  trap  Monypenny  with  this.  She 
suggested  to  the  little  girls  that  they  should  ask  their  father 
if  they  might  invite  Mr.  Monypenny.  But  Charlotte  and 
Louisa  found  the  suggestion  uninspiring,  and  Arthur  and 
James  were  no  better  when  approached.  In  spite  of  his  gen- 
erous conduct  at  the  pastry-cook's,  Monypenny  was  unpop- 
ular with  the  little  Beckets.  They  found  him  staid  and  stiff 
and  horribly  grown-up;  even  Papa  was  more  fun.  Also  Miss 
Wells  was  not  in  favour  with  them  just  now,  having  been  cross 
and  unlike  herself  for  the  last  month;  she  had  failed  to  keep 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  77 

the  secret  of  her  own  eagerness  for  Monypenny's  invitation, 
and  with  childish  cruelty  they  resolved  she  should  not  have 
her  wish.  She  liked  that  horrid  starched  old  prig,  as  the 
boys  called  him,  and  perhaps  he  was  the  reason  for  her  hav- 
ing suddenly  become  grown-up  too. 

Morgan  saw  that  nothing  was  to  be  done  that  way;  for  a 
day  or  two  she  relapsed  into  inactivity,  then  the  ever  pres- 
ent conciousness  that  only  her  own  efforts  could  save  her 
roused  her  to  the  need  for  exertion.  What  did  girls  in  nov- 
els do  when  they  wanted  men  to  love  them?  She  diligently 
studied  the  romances  that  came  her  way,  and  reached  the  de- 
pressing conclusion  that  the  girls  in  novels  did  nothing.  In 
vain  she  searched  the  pages  of  "All  The  Year  Round,"  Miss 
Betham  Edwards,  Mrs.  Ewing,  and  the  new  American  nov- 
els that  everyone  was  reading — the  young  women  in  them  re- 
mained obstinately  passive,  languishing  in  blushes  and  si- 
lence for  the  favour  of  the  adored;  at  best  they  went  no  fur- 
ther than  prayer — a  method  Morgan  had  long  ago  given  up 
as  useless.  She  came  reluctantly  to  the  conclusion  that  it 
was  not  considered  right  or  proper  for  woman  to  woo,  and 
that  no  self-respecting  heroine  would  do  so.  The  discovery  de- 
pressed her,  but  she  did  not  waste  much  time  over  it.  If 
heroines  made  no  effort  to  win  their  hearts'  desire,  then  she 
was  willing  to  forego  the  privilege  of  being  one.  After  all,  was 
not  the  part  of  wicked  enchantress  much  more  thrilling?  Her 
thoughts  swung  back  to  Morgan  le  Fay,  and  she  saw  herself 
the  witch  who  enchanted  the  enchanter  and  bound  him  her 
slave.  That  was  better  than  being  a  milk-and-water  miss  in  a 
novel,  humbly  waiting  till  her  lord  chanced  to  look  her  way. 
She  would  not  rest  till  she  had  found  him  and  bound 
him;  by  some  means  which  fate  would  send  he  should  be  hers. 
There  should  be  no  more  aching  Junes.  .  .  . 


78  TAMARISK  TOWN 

§9 

Monypenny  was  walking  up  the  Coney  Banks  to  call  on 
Lewnes  about  a  little  matter  of  town  finance,  when  he  en- 
countered Becket. 

"Good  evening,"  said  the  latter — "I  was  on  my  way  to 
your  house." 

"Then  I'm  fortunate  to  have  spared  you  the  trouble." 

Becket  never  knew  what  to  do  with  Monypenny's  starched 
politeness.  He  coughed  and  cleared  his  throat. 

"Er — yer — are  you  particularly  engaged  next  Wednesday?" 

"No,"  said  Monypenny. 

"Because  I  had  planned  a  little  farewell  gathering  before 
our  departure  for  Scotland.  Quite  informal,  you  know — just 
the  Leo  Hurdicotts,  the  Papillons,  the  Fulleyloves,  and  Lady 
Cockstreet,  who  is  staying  with  the  Leos.  I  thought  we  might 
have  an  excursion — a  picnic — French  Landing  or  somewhere 
along  the  cliffs." 

"Delightful,"  murmured  Monypenny. 

Becket  turned  and  began  to  walk  with  him  towards  Lewnes's 
house. 

"I  had  promised  the  children  a  treat  some  time  ago.  It 
was  Miss  Wells  who  suggested  that  we  might  make  a  little 
function  of  it.  This  is  not  the  weather  for  drawing-room  as- 
semblies, and  I  feel  that  in  this  way  we  can  all  enjoy  ourselves, 
adults  and  children." 

Miss  Wells!  He  might  have  guessed  it.  Monypenny  hardly 
listened  to  the  rest  of  Becket's  amiable  prosing,  he  was  too 
bitterly  preoccupied  with  the  trap  in  which  he  found  him- 
self. Why  had  he  so  readily  disclaimed  an  engagement?  He 
ought  to  have  been  more  suspicious,  and  left  at  least  one  way 
of  escape.  Now  it  would  be  very  difficult  to  wriggle  out — if 
indeed  he  could  decently  do  so  at  all.  He  did  not  care  a 
damn  for  Becket,  but  there  were  Hurdicotts  to  be  consid- 
ered, and  a  Dowager  who  must  not  be  offended.  He  would 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  79 

have  to  go  and  make  himself  agreeable  to  those  people.  As 
for  the  governess 

He  was  roused  from  his  meditations  by  hearing  her  name. 

"A  wonderful  woman,"  said  Becket. 

"I  agree,"  said  Monypenny. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  for  at  one  time  I  actu- 
ally thought  you  were  prejudiced  against  her." 

Monypenny  laughed. 

"Of  course,"  continued  the  other,  "she  is  not  like  an  ordi- 
nary governess." 

"You  never  spoke  a  truer  word." 

"I  look  upon  her  more  as  a  daughter  than  as — as  a  de- 
pendant." 

"She's  a  wonderful  woman.    Why  don't  you  marry  her?" 

Becket's  jaw  fell  and  his  eyes  bulged. 

"Why  don't  you  marry  her?"  repeated  Monypenny  roughly. 

"My  dear  sir — I — I — the  bare  idea — I  mean  the  unsuit- 
ableness — and  my  beloved  wife  has  not  been  dead  two  years." 

"All  the  more  reason  for  you  to  marry  again — "  Monypenny 
was  speaking  almost  at  random.  "She's  well  born  in  spite  of 
her  bar  sinister,  and  she's  beautiful,  and  she's  clever — oh, 
damn  clever!  She's  fond  of  the  children,  and  she'd  shine  in 
society  with  a  little  more  polish.  I  don't  suppose  she'd  dis- 
grace you  oftener  than  once  a  week.  WThy  don't  you  marry 
her?" 

Becket's  attitude  had  collapsed  from  astonishment  to  a 
pained  disapproval. 

"I  don't  understand  how  you  can  even  suggest  that  a  man 
in  my  position  should  marry  a  woman  in  hers.  Her  unfortu- 
nate birth  .  .  .  and — and  other  things.  ...  It  would  be 
most  unseemly,  even  if  ...  And  I  don't  think  you  realise," 
he  added  sorrowfully,  "how  time  only  increases  my  resolution 
never  to  put  anyone  in  my  dear  Emma's  place.  I  must  beg 
you  to  accept  my  statement  that  my  wife's  memory  is  sacred 
and  shall  never  be  supplanted." 


80  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"Oh,  certainly,"  said  Monypenny  carelessly.  He  had  reached 
Lewnes's  house,  and  stopped  at  the  gate.  Becket  thought  he 
looked  strangely  flushed.  If  he  had  not  known  him  for  the 
most  temperate  of  men  .  .  . 

§10 

On  a  sunny  and  stuffy  afternoon  a  week  later  a  string  of 
elegant  carriages  could  be  seen  on  the  road  that  runs  east- 
ward along  the  back  of  the  cliffs  from  Marlingate  to  Rye.  The 
first  was  the  Leo  Hurdicotts'  and  contained  Mrs.  Leo  and 
Lady  Cockstreet,  with  Alaric  Papillon  and  Monypenny  dodg- 
ing under  their  parasols.  In  the  next  came  Leo  himself  tram- 
pling the  heart  of  little  round-faced  Mrs.  Alaric,  with  his  eye- 
glass and  Dundreary  whiskers,  while  Mrs.  Fulleylove  and  the 
Reverend  Somerville  Hunt  discussed  the  Romish  practices  at 
St.  Paul's  Knightsbridge.  Becket  was  in  the  third  carriage 
with  Fulleylove,  his  daughter,  and  Victoria  Hurdicott.  Then 
came  two  carriagefuls  of  children — infant  Beckets,  Fulley- 
loves,  Papillons  and  Hurdicotts,  swarming  round  their  govern- 
esses and  nurses. 

It  was  a  deadly  way  of  enjoying  oneself,  thought  Mony- 
penny. All  the  same  he  could  not  prevent  an  uneasy  convic- 
tion that  he  would  have  been  perfectly  satisfied  but  for  that 
last  carriage.  The  day  was  ideal  for  a  seaside  picnic,  and  he 
was  in  the  company  of  charming  women — not  that  he  cared 
much  for  women's  society,  but  these  added  wit  and  brains  to 
their  more  obvious  attractions.  He  was  also  working  for  Mar- 
lingate in  the  subtle  social  way  he  loved — already  Lady  Cock- 
street  had  asked  him  to  send  her  particulars  of  the  Rye  Lane 
houses.  Nevertheless  he  was  conscious  of  a  strange  inward  ex- 
asperation, which  seemed  to  magnify  the  uglinesses  and  stupid- 
ities of  his  surroundings.  He  chafed  at  the  idea  of  being  thus, 
a  man  of  full  vigour  and  youth,  driving  in  a  C-springed  car- 
riage under  ladies'  sunshades — somehow  he  wanted,  as  he  had 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  81 

never  wanted  before,  to  be  away  out  of  it  all,  there  on  the  bit- 
ten brown  edge  of  the  cliff,  among  the  gorse-clumps  and  the 
skew-blown  tamarisks — he  wanted  to  feel  the  short  tough 
grass  under  his  feet,  and  smell  its  trodden  sweetness — to  roll 
on  the  thyme  and  the  thrift  and  bite  their  stalks.  ...  He  re- 
minded himself  angrily  that  he  was  an  Alderman  of  Marlin- 
gate. 

A  lane  left  the  road  for  French  Landing,  a  surface  of 
creamy  marl,  baked  by  the  sun  into  ruts  and  hog-backed 
ridges.  Along  this  the  carriages  bumped  and  swayed,  stopping 
at  last  at  a  farmhouse  outside  Landing  Wood.  From  this  the 
party  was  to  walk — the  ladies  were  helped  out  of  the  ba- 
rouches and  walked  along  the  field-path,  holding  their  petti- 
coats off  the  grass.  Monypenny  walked  between  Lady  Cock- 
street  and  Mrs.  Fulleylove,  whose  muslin  domes  each  side  of 
him  were  like  redoubts  against  the  attacking  armies  of  earth 
and  wind,  whose  generalship  seemed  now  to  lie  in  a  vague 
blue  figure  flitting  in  the  field  behind  him,  invisible  save  when 
he  rashly  turned  his  head,  yet  somehow  filling  all  his  con- 
sciousness. 

French  Landing  was  a  gap  in  the  cliffs,  two  of  which  had 
caught  a  wood  between  them,  a  little  struggling  wood  of 
stunted  oaks,  which  writhed  out  at  one  end  into  the  open 
country  and  at  the  other  dripped  over  huge  broken  masses 
of  chalk  and  sandstone  down  to  the  sea.  Here  the  French  had 
landed  for  one  of  their  many  sacks  of  Marlingate.  They  had 
beached  their  ships  under  the  protecting  jut  of  the  Gringer, 
and  marching  west  had  shown  the  little  fourteenth  century 
town  the  horrors  of  plunder,  fire  and  rape.  In  later  years 
they  had  made  more  friendly,  more  dishonest  landings.  The 
place  had  been  a  favourite  smuggling  haunt  fifty  years 
ago,  and  there  were  stories  of  kegs  still  buried  in  un- 
known caves  or  the  matting  of  thorn  and  bramble.  A  little 
creek  trickled  through  the  wood  into  the  sea,  and  here  no 
doubt,  in  the  shelter  of  split  and  tumbled  rocks,  many  a 


82  TAMARISK  TOWN 

French  cutter  had  shipped  her  cargo  of  Burgoyne  wine,  or 
Scotch  coaster,  spirit-reeking  at  her  seams,  landed  whisky 
tubs  in  defiance  of  batsmen  and  excise. 

Down  by  the  sea,  the  closeness  of  the  day  had  lifted,  and 
while  the  thundery  vapour  danced  inland,  a  soft  green  fresh- 
ness rustled  under  the  trees.  The  sunlight  spattered  through 
the  leaves,  and  the  scents  of  spurge  and  dog-rose  were  washed 
in  the  dew  that  had  only  just  dried  and  would  soon  fall  again. 

Tea  was  spread  at  once,  and  the  company  sat  down,  dap- 
pling the  green  mysterious  coolness  with  pinks  and  blues  and 
heliotropes  and  garish  blots  of  white.  There  was  a  good  deal 
of  talk  and  laughter,  and  the  children  chattered.  Monypenny 
sat  at  the  end  of  the  great  cloth  that  had  been  spread  ridic- 
ulously over  the  moss;  Lady  Cockstreet  was  still  beside  him, 
leaning  against  a  stump,  on  his  other  side  was  Victoria  Hur- 
dicott,  her  pretty  pointed  face  simpering  between  ringlets, 
her  minute  parasol  fighting  the  solitary  ray  of  sunlight  that  had 
filtered  through  the  leaves  above  her  and  threatened  to  put  a 
freckle  on  her  nose. 

With  a  cowardice  pitiable  even  to  himself  he  had  striven  to 
put  the  greatest  possible  distance — at  most  about  five  feet — be- 
tween him  and  Morgan  Wells.  He  had  not  spoken  to  her  yet, 
she  had  been  submerged  in  children,  but  he  knew  that  he  would 
not  be  allowed  to  make  a  final  escape.  Why,  he  was  the  reason 
of  the  picnic,  its  motive  and  attraction,  and  she,  the  obscure 
little  governess,  was  in  reality  the  hostess,  the  planner  and  or- 
ganiser of  the  whole.  He  could  not  help  a  bitter  smile,  but  the 
next  moment  it  faded  on  his  lips.  His  peril  was  no  laughing 
matter. 

He  knew  now  that  he  was  in  danger,  or  rather  it  was  now 
that  he  acknowledged  it.  He  might  listen  with  one  ear  to 
the  Dowager's  worldly  tattle  or  to  Victoria's  girlish  niceties, 
but  really  he  was  straining  to  catch  the  words  of  little  Wells 
as  she  talked  to  the  Fulleyloves'  governess.  He  was  watch- 
ing her  too,  wondering  why  she  never  looked  in  his  direc- 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  83 

tion.  Then  suddenly  her  eyes  turned  deliberately  to  his,  met 
them  and  held  them,  as  they  had  done  six  weeks  ago  in  the 
confectioner's  shop,  and  he  seemed  to  feel  the  manhood  go 
out  from  him  to  her  in  a  passion  of  seeking. 

He  wondered  if  Lady  Cockstreet  saw  his  emotion,  and  if 
she  did  whether  she  realised  its  cause.  She  was  a  woman  of 
the  world,  and  shrewd  into  the  bargain.  Morgan  was  not  a 
woman  of  the  world,  she  was  a  woman  of  the  woods.  She 
was  all  the  more  dangerous  because  she  was  unpruned  and 
primitive  and  swayed  by  winds.  A  worldly  woman  would 
be  easier  to  reckon  with — also  there  would  be  no  subtle  al- 
liance between  her  and  the  wind  and  trees,  such  as  he  was 
conscious  of  now.  There  seemed  something  prophetic  in  his 
shrinking  from  the  woods  round  Marlingate,  in  his  sense  of 
them  as  a  hungry  beast  prowling  round  his  town.  ...  A 
long  deep  sigh  seemed  to  pass  up  through  them,  stirless  in 
the  trees,  carrying  in  its  depths  a  roar  as  of  power  and  won- 
der. He  shuddered  and  looked  round  him — then  someone 
said:  "Hark  to  the  sea!  You  can  hear  it  quite  plainly."  So 
it  was  his  other  enemy  that  had  found  him  out,  the  sea,  that 
other  great  eternity  outside  his  little  bit  of  time.  .  .  . 

The  meal  was  really  over;  Morgan  was  eating  cherries.  They 
bobbed  against  her  lips.  Monypenny  found  himself  staring 
at  her  lips.  She  wore  a  shady  hat,  under  which  her  face  was 
mysterious,  large-eyed  like  a  fawn.  Her  gown  was  blue,  as  if 
shredded  from  the  sea. 

The  company  was  rising,  and  looking  neither  right  nor  left 
Monypenny  walked  down  the  path  with  Lady  Cockstreet. 
He  found  in  her  a  kind  of  support.  How  infinitely  superior, 
he  told  himself,  old  women  were  to  young — so  much  sweeter, 
stronger,  and  wiser,  like  good  old  wine. 


84  TAMARISK  TOWN 

§" 

As  they  walked  down  the  path  the  boom  of  the  sea  came 
louder  through  the  trees.  The  two  enemies  seemed  to  sway 
together  in  sound,  hemming  him  in  with  their  surge  and  rus- 
tle, while  the  sunshine  racing  in  and  out  of  the  bowing  branches 
spattered  him  with  strange  flecks  and  ripples  of  light.  There 
was  a  musty  scent  of  nettles. 

"I  suppose,  Mr.  Monypenny,"  said  Lady  Cockstreet,  "that 
we  shall  find  you  an  enthusiastic  reader  of  Cornhill." 

"I  am  looking  forward  to  its  appearance,  I  must  say;  espe- 
cially as  I  hear  on  very  good  authority  that  Thackeray  is  to  be 
editor." 

"You  admire  Thackeray?" 

"Ever  since  I  read  'Barry  Lyndon'  in  Fraser's." 

Monypenny  looked  round  him  uneasily.  He  thought  he 
heard  a  rustle  in  the  trees. 

"Would  you  put  Titmarsh  before  Boz?" 

"I  would — for  Boz  has  no  idea  of  beauty;  also,  though  he 
perhaps  knows  more  of  human  nature,  Thackeray  knows  more 
of  the  world." 

Lady  Cockstreet  wondered  why  the  Alderman  was  looking 
behind  him. 

"I  must  say,"  she  continued,  "that  'A  Tale  of  Two  Cities' 
struck  me  as  immensely  inferior  to  'Esmond.'  " 

"It  is  inferior  in  beauty." 

"You  would  put  beauty  high  in  an  author's  list  of  quali- 
fications?" 

"Of  course."  What  the  devil  was  she  talking  about,  this 
woman?  He  hoped  he  was  answering  her  sensibly. 

"I  can  see  how  you  have  worked  for  beauty  in  Marlin- 
gate." 

He  did  not  reply.  Once  again  he  heard  that  strange  crackle 
in  the  undergrowth,  but  this  time  it  was  in  front  of  him,  and 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  85 

the  next  moment  with  scarcely  a  tremor  of  surprise,  so  in- 
evitable it  seemed,  he  saw  Morgan  on  the  path. 

"Mr.  Monypenny,"  she  began  at  once,  "Mr.  Becket  would 
like  very  much  to  speak  to  you.  He's  over  there  outside  the 
wood." 

"I  am  with  Lady  Cockstreet,"  said  Monypenny  stiffly. 

"Of  course  he  didn't  know  that.  But  if  Lady  Cockstreet 
will  allow  me  I  can  walk  with  her  to  the  dripping-well  and 
meet  you  both  there.  He's  only  just  outside  the  wood — he'd 
have  come  to  you  himself  if  he  wasn't  with  Mrs.  Fulleylove 
and  Miss  Hurdicott.  They  say  this  path  spoils  their  shoes, 
so  he  asked  me  if  I'd  mind  looking  for  you." 

Monypenny  distrusted  the  situation,  but  realised  that  any 
objections  would  sound  odd  to  Lady  Cockstreet.  Besides  if 
Morgan  walked  with  her  to  the  dripping- well.  .  .  . 

"Don't  worry  about  me,  Mr.  Monypenny,"  said  the  Dow- 
ager, "I  shall  easily  find  my  way  with  this  young  lady." 

Monypenny  promptly  conceived  the  insane  idea  that  she 
was  in  league  with  the  enemy,  and  with  a  few  maimed  apol- 
ogies, hurried  off  down  the  little  path  that  led  to  the  cliff  side. 
The  next  moment  he  realised  that  he  had  behaved  like  a  school- 
boy, but  it  was  too  late  to  make  amends.  So  he  fell  to  blam- 
ing Morgan — there  was  some  fatality  about  her,  driving  him  to 
all  kinds  of  cubbish  imbecility.  He  ground  his  teeth  as  he 
hurried  through  the  young  oak  scrub.  He  must  take  himself 
in  hand,  he  must  pull  himself  together.  The  fact  was,  he  was 
ashamed  of  his  own  inexperience;  she  was  making  him  com- 
pare himself  to  other  men  in  his  relations  with  her  sex.  That 
was  another  part  of  the  spell  she  cast  over  him — and  no  or- 
dinary man,  he  told  himself,  would  have  been  influenced  by  it. 
He  must  get  a  bit  more  normal  in  his  relations  with  women — 
then  he  would  not  fall  a  prey  to  any  ill-bred  little  upstart 
who  threw  herself  at  his  head. 

He  was  outside  the  wood  now,  and  of  course  Becket  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  But  why  had  she  .  .  . 


88  TAMARISK  TOWN 

then  that  the  adventure  began  to  look  entirely  mad.  He  re- 
visualised  it,  and  suddenly  laughed,  the  laugh  passing  into  a 
shudder  of  horror.  Good  Lord!  what  had  he  done  with  his 
life?  Bent  it,  twisted  it,  made  out  of  its  flowing  lines  some- 
thing crooked  and  meretricious.  And  yet,  mixed  with  this  re- 
actionary criticism,  lingered  still  a  choking  sense  of  sweetness, 
sometimes  merely  latent  in  his  self-reproach,  sometimes  over- 
powering it  and  sweeping  him  back  helpless  into  the  past,  to 
stand  between  the  woods  and  the  sea  with  a  woman's  heart 
beating  against  his  own. 

His  servant  put  the  port  on  the  table  and  left  the  room.  It 
was  filled  with  dusk,  a  thick  mysterious  twilight  that  seemed 
to  hang  like  a  film  about  the  middle  rose-bowl,  gathering  up 
its  perfume  and  spilling  it  into  the  shadows.  The  man's  figure 
sat  blocked  against  the  window,  motionless,  like  some  black 
Pacific  god.  He  was  thinking,  and  stumbling  strangely  among 
his  thoughts.  Half  of  him  was  praying  for  help  to  his  sur- 
roundings, half  of  him  harked  back  to  French  Landing, 
smelling  the  sea,  and  the  leaves  in  the  hair  of  Morgan  le 
Fay.  .  .  . 

He  drank  some  port — it  seemed  to  help  him.  It  was  the 
very  colour  and  spirit  of  mahogany,  the  concentrated  es- 
sence of  his  house.  He  knew  now  that  he  was  awakening 
from  the  dream,  his  past  life  no  longer  seemed  entirely  cut  off 
from  him  by  one  mad  moment.  The  more  he  thought  of  it, 
the  madder  it  seemed.  And  the  consequences  ...  he 
drained  another  glass  of  port.  He  had  promised  to  meet 
her  tomorrow  at  the  Slide;  the  chief  Alderman,  the  future 
Mayor,  of  Marlingate,  had  an  assignation  with  a  nursery 
governess.  He  always  called  Morgan  that  when  he  wanted 
to  escape  from  her,  knowing  that  she  was  as  much  one  as  a 
changeling  fairy  would  be,  a  puck  or  a  goblin  put  by  curi- 
osity or  enchantment  into  the  place.  She  was  no  governess, 
and  he  was  no  Alderman — they  were  man  and  woman  to- 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  89 

gether.  Curse  it,  there  he  was  back  again!  Running  round 
and  round  this  one  little  circle  like  a  goat  on  a  stake. 

He  was  a  fool.  What  other  man,  he  wondered,  would  have 
been  so  easily  caught?  It  was  his  utter  inexperience  of  women 
that  had  put  him  so  helplessly  into  her  hands.  She  had  used 
no  art,  no  subtlety,  no  special  skill— she  had  crudely  and 
vulgarly  thrown  herself  at  his  head.  Any  man  with  the  slight- 
est knowledge  of  women  would  have  laughed  at  her.  He  had 
been  an  easy  prey — a  fledgling,  and  she  had  him  in  her 
claws. 

And  yet  ...  he  was  back  under  the  Gringer,  his  arms 
were  round  her,  his  mouth  closed  on  the  sweetness  of  her 
lips.  .  .  . 

He  spoke  plainly  to  himself.  This  was  a  case  of  mere  sex- 
ual attraction.  His  masculinity  had  been  starved  and  had 
snatched  at  the  morsel  offered  him.  How  could  he  expect  to 
feel  any  real  love  for  a  woman  he  had  met  so  seldom  and  un- 
der such  unfavourable  circumstances,  who  was  worlds  apart 
from  him  in  taste  and  conduct  and  character  and  position? 
It  was  merely  the  healthy  hungry  young  man  in  him  crying 
out  to  the  healthy  satisfying  young  woman  in  her.  Yet  he 
could  not  forget  the  exaltation  of  soul  that  had  come  to  him 
as  he  held  her,  that  sense  of  possessing  all  things  from  the 
ground  under  his  feet  to  the  sky  above  his  head,  of  having 
reached  out  at  last  beyond  the  illusion  of  his  desires  and 
grasped  that  reality  for  which  he  had  always  unconsciously 
striven. 

He  rose  from  the  table,  and  went  across  to  the  window. 
Outside,  lights  were  beginning  to  dot  and  twinkle.  He  heard 
the  rattle  of  a  cart  on  the  road,  he  heard  a  faint  stir  of 
movement  coming  from  the  High  Street,  over  which  hung 
a  flushed  haze  of  lamps.  Then  music  floated  towards  him 
from  a  house  close  by — dance  music;  with  its  faint  tinkle  it 
seemed  to  entice  him  back  into  the  life  of  Marlingate,  the 
balls  and  assemblies,  concerts  and  routs.  He  thought  of  the 


88  TAMARISK  TOWN 

then  that  the  adventure  began  to  look  entirely  mad.  He  re- 
visualised  it,  and  suddenly  laughed,  the  laugh  passing  into  a 
shudder  of  horror.  Good  Lord!  what  had  he  done  with  his 
life?  Bent  it,  twisted  it,  made  out  of  its  flowing  lines  some- 
thing crooked  and  meretricious.  And  yet,  mixed  with  this  re- 
actionary criticism,  lingered  still  a  choking  sense  of  sweetness, 
sometimes  merely  latent  in  his  self-reproach,  sometimes  over- 
powering it  and  sweeping  him  back  helpless  into  the  past,  to 
stand  between  the  woods  and  the  sea  with  a  woman's  heart 
beating  against  his  own. 

His  servant  put  the  port  on  the  table  and  left  the  room.  It 
was  filled  with  dusk,  a  thick  mysterious  twilight  that  seemed 
to  hang  like  a  film  about  the  middle  rose-bowl,  gathering  up 
its  perfume  and  spilling  it  into  the  shadows.  The  man's  figure 
sat  blocked  against  the  window,  motionless,  like  some  black 
Pacific  god.  He  was  thinking,  and  stumbling  strangely  among 
his  thoughts.  Half  of  him  was  praying  for  help  to  his  sur- 
roundings, half  of  him  harked  back  to  French  Landing, 
smelling  the  sea,  and  the  leaves  in  the  hair  of  Morgan  le 
Fay.  .  .  . 

He  drank  some  port — it  seemed  to  help  him.  It  was  the 
very  colour  and  spirit  of  mahogany,  the  concentrated  es- 
sence of  his  house.  He  knew  now  that  he  was  awakening 
from  the  dream,  his  past  life  no  longer  seemed  entirely  cut  off 
from  him  by  one  mad  moment.  The  more  he  thought  of  it, 
the  madder  it  seemed.  And  the  consequences  ...  he 
drained  another  glass  of  port.  He  had  promised  to  meet 
her  tomorrow  at  the  Slide;  the  chief  Alderman,  the  future 
Mayor,  of  Marlingate,  had  an  assignation  with  a  nursery 
governess.  He  always  called  Morgan  that  when  he  wanted 
to  escape  from  her,  knowing  that  she  was  as  much  one  as  a 
changeling  fairy  would  be,  a  puck  or  a  goblin  put  by  curi- 
osity or  enchantment  into  the  place.  She  was  no  governess, 
and  he  was  no  Alderman — they  were  man  and  woman  to- 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  89 

gather.  Curse  it,  there  he  was  back  again!  Running  round 
and  round  this  one  little  circle  like  a  goat  on  a  stake. 

He  was  a  fool.  What  other  man,  he  wondered,  would  have 
been  so  easily  caught?  It  was  his  utter  inexperience  of  women 
that  had  put  him  so  helplessly  into  her  hands.  She  had  used 
no  art,  no  subtlety,  no  special  skill— she  had  crudely  and 
vulgarly  thrown  herself  at  his  head.  Any  man  with  the  slight- 
est knowledge  of  women  would  have  laughed  at  her.  He  had 
been  an  easy  prey — a  fledgling,  and  she  had  him  in  her 
claws. 

And  yet  ...  he  was  back  under  the  Gringer,  his  arms 
were  round  her,  his  mouth  closed  on  the  sweetness  of  her 
lips.  .  .  . 

He  spoke  plainly  to  himself.  This  was  a  case  of  mere  sex- 
ual attraction.  His  masculinity  had  been  starved  and  had 
snatched  at  the  morsel  offered  him.  How  could  he  expect  to 
feel  any  real  love  for  a  woman  he  had  met  so  seldom  and  un- 
der such  unfavourable  circumstances,  who  was  worlds  apart 
from  him  in  taste  and  conduct  and  character  and  position? 
It  was  merely  the  healthy  hungry  young  man  in  him  crying 
out  to  the  healthy  satisfying  young  woman  in  her.  Yet  he 
could  not  forget  the  exaltation  of  soul  that  had  come  to  him 
as  he  held  her,  that  sense  of  possessing  all  things  from  the 
ground  under  his  feet  to  the  sky  above  his  head,  of  having 
reached  out  at  last  beyond  the  illusion  of  his  desires  and 
grasped  that  reality  for  which  he  had  always  unconsciously 
striven. 

He  rose  from  the  table,  and  went  across  to  the  window. 
Outside,  lights  were  beginning  to  dot  and  twinkle.  He  heard 
the  rattle  of  a  cart  on  the  road,  he  heard  a  faint  stir  of 
movement  coming  from  the  High  Street,  over  which  hung 
a  flushed  haze  of  lamps.  Then  music  floated  towards  him 
from  a  house  close  by — dance  music;  with  its  faint  tinkle  it 
seemed  to  entice  him  back  into  the  life  of  Marlingate,  the 
balls  and  assemblies,  concerts  and  routs.  He  thought  of  the 


90  TAMARISK  TOWN 

Marine  Parade,  swimming  with  colours  and  lights,  of  the  As- 
sembly Room  like  a  crystal  box,  of  the  Town  Hall  with  its 
crockets  and  spires,  of  the  water-works  a-building,  the  Ma- 
rine Gardens  and  Town  Park  that  were  to  be.  ... 

He  would  be  a  fool  if  he  lost  Marlingate  for  the  sake  of  a 
passing  impulse  towards  Morgan  Wells.  His  love  was  a  spark, 
a  flash,  and  would  die,  while  Marlingate  remained  to  reproach 
him.  He  tried  to  picture  Morgan  as  his  wife.  No  memories 
of  her  occasional  stateliness  could  hide  her  catastrophic  unfit- 
ness.  The  marriage  would  be  simply  disastrous.  His  career 
would  be  blasted  and  the  future  of  Marlingate  with  it. 

Then  anger  suddenly  possessed  him.  How  dared  she?  .  .  . 
He  was  hot  with  fury  when  he  thought  how  calmly  she  had 
brushed  aside  the  town,  sweeping  it  carelessly  away  as  a 
thing  of  naught,  offering  herself  in  its  stead.  Did  she  real- 
ise the  effrontery  of  that  substitution?  Did  she  know  that 
if  he  took  her  he  lost  Marlingate?  Did  she  care  if  she  knew? 
Damn  her!  She  set  a  price  on  herself,  weighed  herself  in  the 
balance  with  Marlingate  and  tipped  the  town  to  the  beam. 
She  was  like  a  child,  jauntily  offering  him  a  bunch  of  leaves 
in  exchange  for  all  that  was  real  and  solid  and  settled  in 
his  life. 

Already  the  vision  at  the  Gringer  was  growing  dim — or 
rather  assuming  a  strange  flatness,  like  some  picture,  apart 
from  himself,  a  mere  image  of  something  that  could  scarcely 
be.  Marlingate  lay  between  him  and  the  eastward  cliffs,  cut- 
ting him  off  with  its  dear  substantiality  from  the  land  of  il- 
lusion and  spells.  He  must  never  go  back  there,  where  the 
woods  met  the  sea.  In  spite  of  his  civic  honours  and  expe- 
rience, he  was  still  too  young  to  venture  unscathed  into 
Luthany. 

He  remembered  the  tryst  at  the  Slide.  He  must  keep  that, 
but  only  to  destroy  the  rest.  He  would  tell  her  all  that  he 
had  found  in  his  own  heart,  repeat  to  her  the  arguments  that 
Marlingate  had  used  against  her.  With  his  queer  ignorance 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  91 

of  woman,  which  no  intercourse  with  women  seemed  able  to 
djspel,  he  expected  her  to  follow  his  reasoning  and  come  to 
his  conclusions.  Anyhow  she  was  going  to  Scotland  in  a  day 
or  two.  It  was  only  a  question  of  resisting  her  now.  Soon  half 
the  kingdom  would  divide  them,  and  when  she  came  back  she 
would  have  forgotten,  and  he  would  be  safe.  He  probably 
would  not  see  her  again  till  October,  and  by  then  the  spell 
would  have  vanished.  It  was  fading  now — only  a  faint 
memory  seemed  to  linger,  like  spindrift  on  the  air. 

§13 

The  Slide  was  an  old  smugglers'  haunt  like  French  Land- 
ing and  the  first  of  those  valleys  that  scoop  the  cliffs  between 
Marlingate  and  the  Stussels,  where  the  high  ground  crumbles 
slowly  into  Romney  Marsh.  There  was  a  little  wood,  as  at 
French  Landing,  and  a  sea-going  stream,  but  the  hollow  lay 
cracked  wide  open  to  the  Channel,  and  the  salt  winds  plunged 
up  it,  twisting  the  oaks,  which  the  brined  fogs  had  dwarfed,  so 
that  with  their  gnarled  and  crooked  branches,  all  leeward 
blown,  they  were  like  hands  lifted  from  the  earth  in  a  gob- 
lin prayer.  They  grew  out  of  tangles  of  gorse  and  blackberry, 
sprawling  pignut  and  spiney  rushes.  Above  them  rose  the 
westward  slope  of  the  Gringer,  crested  with  the  sheep-nibbled 
mounds  of  an  old  British  camp. 

Monypenny  looked  up  at  it  as  he  came  down  All  Holland 
Hill  towards  the  Slide.  He  did  not  allow  his  eyes  to  rake 
the  valley,  in  case  they  saw  what  might  weaken  his  heart. 
He  was  still  unfaltering  in  his  resolve.  His  waking  had  con- 
firmed the  evening's  sanity — French  Landing  was  now  just 
an  impossible  dream,  a  picture  he  had  seen,  a  song  he  had 
heard.  .  .  .  He  piled  up  the  morning's  work  between  him 
and  its  madness.  The  post  had  brought  him  a  mass  of  cor- 
respondence, all  relating  to  borough  affairs.  There  was  some- 
thing profoundly  settling  and  soothing  in  the  Town  Clerk's 


92  TAMARISK  TOWN 

formal  announcement  of  a  Council  meeting  on  Tuesday — in 
a  memorandum  from  Wastel  on  the  matter  of  renaming  the 
Gut's  Mouth,  whose  present  name  was  said  to  give  offence 
to  genteel-minded  visitors — in  a  letter  from  Vidler  about  the 
America  Ground,  enclosing  a  communication  from  the  Commis- 
sion of  Woods  and  Forests,  who  proposed  inspecting  the  place. 
He  had  read  everything  slowly,  making  notes  of  his  replies, 
smacking  the  borough  savour.  It  was  all  sweet  and  sane  and 
passionless,  smooth  and  solid  as  its  own  stucco,  imposing  and 
pompous  as  its  own  Aldermen,  as  far  from  romance  as  the 
Town  Hall  from  the  Gringer.  .  .  . 

He  had  ended  by  cramming  the  whole  mass  into  his  pocket 
— its  municipal  character  and  the  borough  arms  stamped  all 
over  it  seemed  to  give  it  magic  powers  of  support.  It  was  a 
counterspell  that  he  carried  against  the  enchantments  of  Mor- 
gan le  Fay.  .  .  . 

She  was  waiting  for  him.  From  far  off  he  saw  her  standing 
under  one  of  the  stunted  oaks,  its  warped  and  flattened 
branches  clawing  out  above  her  like  fingers.  It  was  char- 
acteristic of  her  to  be  there  first — she  was  at  once  too  child- 
ish, too  adult  and  too  wild  for  coquetry.  Besides,  a  woman 
who  priced  herself  at  Marlingate  had  no  need  to  fear  lest  she 
should  cheapen  her  favours.  Directly  she  saw  him  she  ran 
forward  to  meet  him,  a  sudden  and  dangerous  reconstruction 
of  yesterday,  with  her  sea-blue  dress,  and  brown  face,  and  lips 
like  red  bryony  berries. 

Then  suddenly  she  stopped,  and  stood  poised  and  uncer- 
tain, her  brightness  clouded,  for  she  saw  his  arms  stiff  at  his 
side,  and  his  eyes  once  more  cold  and  municipal. 

"Edward!" 

He  started  at  the  name.  No  one  had  called  him  anything 
but  Monypenny  for  years. 

"Edward.  .  .  .    What  is  the  matter?     You've  changed." 

He  suddenly  wished  that  he  had  not  come,  that  he  had  left 
his  unkept  tryst  to  tell  her  of  his  unfaithfulness.  Yet  to 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  93 

what  had  he  been  unfaithful? — Not  to  her,  but  to  an  im- 
pulse, to  a  moment.  He  fingered  the  Town  Clerk's  letter  in 
his  pocket,  and  spoke  with  all  the  stiffness  of  embarrassment. 

"I  haven't  changed.  I  never  really  was  what  you  saw  yes- 
terday. Now  I'm  just  myself  again." 

She  stared  at  him  as  if  she  could  not  understand. 

"Miss  Wells.  ...  I  want  to  explain  things  to  you — I  want 
you  to  see " 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him.  They  were  of  a  strange 
amber  colour,  like  the  water  that  collects  under  dead  leaves. 
A  sudden  pain  tore  open  his  heart  and  twisted  his  tongue  out 
of  its  formalities. 

"For  God's  sake,  help  me  a  little!  Don't  stare  at  me  like 
that — say  something — don't  you  see  how  difficult  it  is?" 

But  she  was  like  a  stricken  animal,  dumb,  with  staring, 
pleading  eyes.  He  had  to  go  on  speaking,  to  spare  them  both 
the  torture  of  silence. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am.  I  quite  lost  my  head 
yesterday,  and  did  and  said  things  I  was  ashamed  of  as  soon 
as  I  had  time  to  think  them  over!" 

"Ashamed  of  loving  me!" 

"No — ho — no!  Ashamed  because  I  didn't  love  you,  be- 
cause I  gave  way  to  an  impulse.  You  were  like  a  flood  to 
me.  Oh,  forgive  me!  .  .  .  But  you  no  more  really  wanted 
me  than  I  really  wanted  you.  We've  nothing  in  common  .  .  . 
and  it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  you  any  more  than  to  me  if  we  went 
on  as  we  began." 

Strange  to  say  her  side  of  the  question  had  never  struck 
him  before.  He  had  been  enraged  by  her  cunning,  her  reck- 
lessness, her  effrontery,  he  had  heard  only  the  voice  of  Mar- 
lingate  accusing  her. 

"You  can't  really  care  for  me,"  he  continued,  trying  to 
salve  her  self-respect,  for  he  was  feeling  a  new  pity  for  this 
poor  little  thing  who  sought  to  measure  herself  against  his 
town — "you  don't  care  for  me — you  just  want  to  make  a 


94  TAMARISK  TOWN 

new  interest.  But  it's  a  dangerous  game  in  a  town  like 
this;  people  would " 

"I  don't  care  about  people,  and  I'm  not  playing  a  game, 
as  you  call  it.  I  love  you,  and  I'm  not  ashamed  of  it  as  you 
are.  I  love  you,  and  I  don't  mind  who  knows  it." 

"But  I  don't  think  you  can  realise  what  it  would  mean  if 
you  married  me.  Do  you  feel  you  could  endure  being  an  Al- 
derman's wife — perhaps  a  Mayor's  wife  in  a  year  or  two?" 

"I  don't  ask  you  to  marry  me — spoil  your  career.  Ill  be 
anything  you  like.  .  .  ." 

"Hush!"  cried  Monypenny,  intensely  shocked. 

"Yes — I'll  be  your  slave.  Only  let  me  love  you.  You  can 
throw  me  over  when  you  get  tired  of  me.  I  don't  ask  you 

"Will  you  be  quiet!"  cried  Monypenny.  "What  do  you 
take  me  for?" 

Morgan  looked  at  him  rather  bitterly  out  of  her  slanting 
eyes.  • 

"Then  give  up  all  those  stuffy  old  things  and  marry  me." 

"Give  them  up!    I  couldn't." 

She  was  unconsciously  fighting  the  town's  battle  against 
herself,  by  the  way  she  ramped  and  plunged  and  tore  her 
way  through  all  his  most  quickset  conventions  and  ideals. 
She  kicked  aside  the  town  and  the  decalogue  with  equal  dis- 
respect. He  need  not  have  troubled  to  salve  her  pride — she 
evidently  had  none,  or  if  she  had,  it  was  of  that  undisciplined, 
primitive  kind  which  is  not  susceptible  to  ordinary  humilia- 
tions. 

"Oh,  Edward,  I  could  make  you  so  happy — I  could  show 
you  such  wonderful  things.  Come  away  with  me — we'll  go 
into  the  country — or  to  foreign  places.  We'll  get  away  from 
this  horrible  Marlingate,  which  is  sucking  all  the  spirit  out 
of  you.  You're  only  a  boy,  really — the  boy  I  love — and 
Marlingate  is  turning  you  into  a  stuffy,  middle-aged,  old — 

"I  think  that's  enough,"  said  Monypenny.    He  resented  her 


MORGAN  LE  FAY  95 

insults  of  her  rival  as  much  as  if  that  rival  had  been  made  of 
flesh  and  blood  instead  of  bricks  and  mortar.  The  uneasy 
truth  that  lay  in  her  words  only  made  them  more  outrageous. 

It  was  lucky  for  him  that  his  enchantress  was  yet  so  young. 
So  clumsy,  so  unskilled  in  magic.  She  saw  that  she  had  only 
one  spell  left — the  spell  of  French  Landing.  During  the  half 
malignant  silence  which  fell  on  them  then,  she  had  crept  to~ 
wards  him,  drooping  like  a  wild  hyacinth  in  her  blue  gown. 
Then  suddenly  she  flung  her  body  straight,  flung  back  her 
head,  her  arms  were  round  him  soft  and  strong  as  fox-glove 
stalks,  and  her  hair,  falling  loose,  trailed  on  his  lips,  till  he 
tasted  it  sweet  as  syllabub. 

But  her  contact  was  no  snare,  as  it  had  been  at  French 
Landing;  strange  to  say,  that  part  of  the  adventure  seemed 
to  have  died,  and  was  buried  far  away,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Gringer.  Instead  he  felt  only  a  strange  and  intense  pity. 
Pity  and  sorrow  and  the  pain  of  her  beauty  filled  his  throat 
and  made  the  tears  blur  his  eyes.  ...  He  put  up  his  hands 
to  hers  and  tried  to  loose  them,  and  all  the  time  the  tears  in 
his  eyes  gathered  and  grew  till  they  spilled  over.  Her  in- 
stinct seemed  to  tell  her  that  his  weakness  was  not  her  tri- 
umph, that  these  strange  tears  were  not  shed  for  his  defeat 
but  for  his  victory.  It  was  as  if  the  vanquished  boy  in  him 
wept  over  the  victorious  Alderman.  .  .  .  She  relaxed  her 
clasp  of  him,  and  sank  down  into  the  pool  of  her  spread  blue 
gown. 

He  sat  down  beside  her,  hugging  his  knees.  For  some  mo- 
ments they  sat  in  silence,  and  in  that  silence  they  were  just 
boy  and  girl  together,  weeping  because  life  was  cruel  and  had 
beaten  them.  The  next  minute  he  would  be  an  Alderman 
again,  and  she  would  be  a  governess;  but  at  present  they 
were  just  a  boy  and  a  girl  sitting  and  crying  together  in  the 
pignut  tangles  of  the  Slide.  The  magic  still  hung  over 
them.  .  .  . 

Then  it  broke,  scattering  like  the  webs  of  the  night  which 


96  TAMARISK  TOWN 

the  sunrise  melts  off  the  grass.  The  Alderman  stood  up,  and 
shamefully  wiped  his  eyes;  and  then,  without  looking  at  the 
governess,  walked  away. 

He  went  resolutely  up  All  Holland  Hill.  Once  he  thought 
he  heard  her  coming  after  him,  but  it  was  only  the  wind 
whiffing  through  the  gorse  clumps  and  the  knapweed.  There 
was  something  like  a  stone  in  his  breast  when  he  thought  of  her, 
but  he  did  not  think  of  her  often,  for  his  thoughts  were  mixed 
with  shame — shame  for  her,  shame  for  himself,  shame  for  the 
adventure  of  passion  and  pity,  which  was  dead,  walled  up  and 
buried  in  bricks  and  mortar  like  an  old-time  rebel  against  es- 
tablished sanctuaries. 


CHAPTER  III 
CLIMBING  STREETS 

§i 

IT  passed;  it  became  like  a  dream.  The  lock  of  his  arms 
about  Morgan  le  Fay,  the  seduction  of  her  lips  under  his, 
grew  vague,  fantastical,  an  orgie  of  memory,  almost  of  imag- 
ination. At  the  bottom  of  his  heart  it  had  undoubtedly  left 
a  sediment,  a  certain  painful  richness.  Monypenny  was  too 
vital  to  escape  the  sentence  of  that  law  which  decrees  that  ex- 
perience shall  always  work  a  sharper  life  and  death.  But  the 
dream  was  put  away  into  the  past  where  it  belonged,  it  never 
troubled  the  present  with  its  intrusions  or  sent  its  shadow 
darkling  along  the  future. 

He  had  not  seen  her  since  he  left  her  at  the  Slide.  For  two 
days  he  had  furtively  scanned  the  distances  of  the  town;  but 
nothing  happened,  and  on  the  third  day  the  Beckets  left  for 
Scotland.  He  was  safe,  and  he  wondered  how  he  could  ever 
have  risked  his  dear  safety  and  freedom,  the  prop  and  the 
expanse  of  his  endeavour.  He  had  been  a  fool,  he  had  be- 
haved like  any  foolish,  hot  young  man  to  whom  a  girl  is  a 
better  prize  than  a  city.  Now  he  was  sane — he  had  escaped 
beyond  the  outposts  of  his  passion,  those  dim  unrests  and 
windy  questionings  which  had  troubled  his  peace  even  be- 
fore the  day  of  French  Landing.  Never  again  would  he  let 
a  woman  snare  him.  He  might  see  the  reality  and  wisdom 
of  love  for  those  who  had  no  other  calling,  but  he  had  con- 
secrated himself  to  more  enduring  things,  and  he  would  never 
forget  how  for  one  moment  love  had  made  him  stagger  before 

97 


98  TAMARISK  TOWN 

his  ambition,  risk  its  glories  for  the  magic  of  a  girl's  eyes  and 
lips,  and  unsubstantial  things  of  wind  and  sea. 

He  turned  back  to  Marlingate  as  a  man  who  has  left  his 
work  to  watch  from  the  window  an  organ-grinder  with  a  per- 
forming monkey  turns  to  his  desk  again  and  wonders  what 
made  him  such  a  fool  as  to  waste  his  time.  The  town  was  in 
the  full  flower  of  its  summer  season.  Day  by  day  the  band 
played  in  the  Moorish  kiosk  on  the  Parade,  and  round  it 
trailed  crinolines  and  parasols,  velvet  coats  and  white  top- 
hats,  like  marionettes  on  a  string.  .  .  . 

Becket  Grove  was  now  nearly  finished,  and  so  well  let  that 
Monypenny  planned  continuing  it  and  joining  it  to  Rye  Lane 
by  a  short  terrace.  The  big  villas  were  also  growing,  and 
Lady  Cockstreet  had  taken  one  for  next  season.  From  Gun 
Garden  House  the  woods  had  ebbed  away,  cut  off  by  red- 
brick walls,  asphalt  pavements,  and  the  beginning  of  roads 
as  yet  all  muddy  and  slabbed.  At  the  other  end  of  the  town 
the  sea  was  held  back  by  the  glistening  white  battlements  of 
the  Parade.  Up  and  down  and  to  and  fro  promenaded  the 
crinolines  and  parasols,  velvet  coats  and  white  top-hats.  Peo- 
ple thought  far  more  of  the  Parade  and  the  band  than  they 
thought  of  the  sea  as  it  lay  remote  beyond  the  shingle,  hunted 
over  by  shadows. 

§2 

The  summer  passed,  and  after  a  few  months  the  winter 
season  blossomed  sunnily  out  of  the  bleakness  of  autumn.  A 
cosmic  regularity  was  establishing  itself  in  Marlingate;  there 
was  no  leaping  progress,  no  sudden  discovering  and  over- 
whelming of  the  town,  but  a  steady,  sober  increase  of  pop- 
ularity. It  was  not  likely  that  Marlingate  would  ever  be  the 
size  of  Eastbourne,  let  alone  Brighton;  a  couple  more  groves' 
and  a  crescent  or  two  would  accommodate  its  residency,  and 
when  a  hotel  had  been  built  to  relieve  the  slightly  congested 
inns  and  lodging-houses  its  birds  of  passage  would  be  roosted 


CLIMBING  STREETS  99 

too.  That  the  town  should  become  widely  known  as  a  select 
watering-place  was  the  aim  of  the  town  council;  that  it  should 
be  beautiful  beyond  the  measure  of  all  other  watering-places 
was  the  aim  of  Monypenny.  There  was  a  quaint  Fragonard- 
ish  touch  in  his  conception — he  saw  the  revels  on  Marlin- 
gate  beach  conducted  with  the  dainty  strutting  picturesque- 
ness  of  an  eighteenth-century  pastoral  canvas.  He  was  as 
eager  as  Pelham  or  Mastel  for  the  place  to  be  high-class  and 
genteel,  but  gentility  was  not  for  him,  as  it  was  for  them, 
Mamma  in  her  silk  paisley  shawl  seated  between  her  daugh- 
ters listening  to  the  "Bohemian  Girl"  overture,  but  something 
altogether  more  arch,  delicate  and  laced,  something  frilled 
and  iridescent,  which  hovered  like  a  spell  over  the  hoops 
and  shawls  of  Mamma  and  her  daughters,  as  Fragonard's 
art  cast  magic  on  the  smock  of  the  village  shepherdess. 

During  the  autumn  Monypenny  had  heard  little  of  Becket, 
whom  now  he  uneasily  expected  back.  He  resented  the  fact 
that  he  was  uneasy,  and  his  resentment  barbed  itself  against 
Becket,  who  he  felt  was  responsible  for  it  by  suddenly  wrap- 
ping himself  in  secrecy.  He  had  left  Scotland  and  was  now 
in  London,  but  Monypenny's  last  letter  to  him  stayed  un- 
answered, and  his  house  on  the  Coney  Banks  was  sublet  to  a 
retired  Colonel  and  his  genteel  unmarried  daughters. 

What  would  happen  if  Becket  came  back,  and  Miss  Wells  in 
her  mad,  challenging  blue  gown  walked  down  the  High  Street 
some  day  in  December?  Would  the  woods  and  the  sea  rush 
back  to  Marlingate  and  engulf  it  as  they  had  done  in  June? 
Would  the  Mayor  and  Corporation  become  so  many  blocks  of 
stone  and  the  borough  minutes  so  many  tons  of  waste-paper, 
while  the  chief  Alderman  danced  on  the  cliff  to  the  piping  of  a 
fairy?  .  .  . 

Monypenny  pulled  up  his  thoughts  with  a  jerk.  All  that 
was  over,  if  indeed  it  had  ever  been.  He  now  had  himself 
in  hand,  he  knew  his  perils,  and  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  se- 
cure himself  against  inner  treacheries.  As  time  passed  he  told 


ioo  TAMARISK  TOWN 

himself  more  and  more  decidedly  that  it  was  the  suppressed 
instincts  of  his  manhood  that  had  betrayed  him,  and  would  al- 
ways betray  him  if  he  did  not  turn  them  to  better  work,  play- 
ing him  into  the  hands  of  any  woman  who  was  sharp  enough 
to  gauge  his  weakness — as  she  had  been,  that  monkey.  He  was 
not  afraid  of  himself  now — he  could  tackle  the  forces  within 
just  as  he  could  tackle  those  without.  Something  infinitely 
great  called  him  out  of  himself,  so  that  he  had  no  need  to  cru- 
cify his  nature,  simply  leave  it  behind.  He  was  no  ascetic 
sourly  mortifying  the  flesh,  but  a  philosopher  enthusiastically 
ignoring  it. 

Then,  on  the  morning  of  the  Christmas  Assembly  a  let- 
ter came  from  Becket.  As  Monypenny  read  it  he  experienced 
an  odd  nervous  shock,  due  to  the  revelation  of  a  trickiness  in 
fate  which  up  till  now  he  had  seldom  thought  of  and  never 
experienced.  After  a  characteristically  long-winded  opening 
of  formalities  and  apologies,  came: — 

"I  have,  however,  a  respectable  excuse,  for  this  last  week 
has  been  filled  with  a  happiness  and  excitement  I  had  little 
reason  to  expect  again  at  my  years.  In  brief,  I  have  ven- 
tured to  repeat  the  happiness  I  once  enjoyed  in  wedded  life. 
Even  last  summer  you  may  have  noticed  my  growing  regard 
for  my  young  kinswoman,  Morgan  Wells,  so  perhaps  it  will 
not  come  as  a  great  surprise  to  you  to  hear  that  I  mar- 
ried her  at  our  parish  church  last  week,  and  have  just  re- 
turned from  Cheltenham,  where  we  spent  our  honeymoon, 
the  shortness  of  which  I  hope  to  atone  for  in  more  propitious 
weather.  The  fact  that  my  dear  wife  is  a  relation  of  the 
first  Mrs.  Becket  makes  our  union  all  the  more  blessed  to 
me.  During  her  brief  visits  to  Marlingate  you  had  oppor- 
tunity to  appreciate  her  charm,  elegance,  and  warmth  of  heart. 
The  children  are  delighted  that  one  to  whom  they  are  so 
deeply  and  deservedly  attached  should  become  their  Mamma. 
I  have  kept  the  matter  private  until  our  return  to  Eaton 


CLIMBING  STREETS  101 

Square,  but  have  now  written  and  apprised  the  Leo  and  the 
Arthur  Hurdicotts  as  well  as  yourself.  Unfortunately  I  can- 
not look  forward  to  a  meeting  in  the  near  future,  as  my  wife 
finds  that  the  air  of  Marlingate  does  not  agree  with  her — 
indeed,  for  some  constitutions  it  may  be  a  trifle  too  bracing — 
and  I  have  promised  her  that  our  country  excursions  shall  be 
to  Cheltenham  for  this  year.  However,  you  may  be  assured 
of  my  practical  interest  in  the  town  and  its  affairs,  and  I  hope 
you  may  find  it  convenient  to  communicate  with  me  fre- 
quently as  to  its  progress." 

Monypenny  laughed. 

The  situation  appealed  to  his  sense  of  humour.  So  Becket 
had  been  caught,  where  he  had  escaped.  What  an  old  fool 
Becket  was! — mating  ridiculously  at  forty-five  with  a  gov- 
erness-girl, only  two  years  after  the  loss  of  the  wife  he  had 
sworn  unreplaceable  and  unforgettable.  He  remembered  a 
certain  conversation  on  the  Coney  Banks,  and  laughed  again. 

Then  he  hoped  that  the  Hurdicotts  would  not  be  driven 
out  of  Marlingate  by  this  treachery  to  their  legitimate  stock, 
but  the  next  moment  he  had  comforted  himself  with  the 
thought  that  the  Beckets  were  not  likely  to  be  in  the  town 
much  after  this,  and  anyhow  Marlingate  now  had  its  own 
grip  on  the  Hurdicotts,  apart  from  Cousin  Hugo.  Monypenny 
laughed  again.  He  laughed  because  he  was  not  worse  stricken 
by  the  news — indeed,  scarcely  stricken  at  all.  It  was  odd 
that  he  should  care  so  little,  see  only  the  ridiculous  side  of 
the  episode,  after  all  his  burnings  and  questionings.  The 
flesh  was  a  very  poor  thing,  after  all,  weak  in  its  holdings, 
foggy  in  its  memories.  It  had  made  a  fool  of  Becket,  and  it 
had  made  a  fool  of  Monypenny,  but  Monypenny,  unlike 
Becket,  would  not  be  made  a  fool  of  twice.  As  for  Morgan, 
she  was  a  minx;  she  had  snared  the  old  man  just  as  she  would 
have  snared  the  young  if  he  had  let  her.  She  was  quite  right 
about  the  air  of  Marlingate — it  was  certainly  too  bracing  for  a 


102  TAMARISK  TOWN 

woman  of  her  temperament.     Ha,  ha!   Monypenny  laughed 
again. 

§3 

For  a  little  time  Marlingate  swarmed  and  hummed  round 
the  Becket-Wells  wedding.  Opinion  was  divided.  Some 
blamed  him  for  an  old  ass,  some  blamed  her  for  a  self-serv- 
ing upstart.  All  wondered  what  the  Hurdicotts  felt  about 
the  business.  There  was  some  heat  in  the  discussion  at  first, 
but  soon  the  little  drama  lost  interest,  the  two  chief  actors 
being  off  the  stage,  and  Marlingate  turned  to  its  own  scan- 
dals for  diversion. 

As  for  Monypenny,  he  was  absorbed  in  the  final  throes 
of  the  America  Ground.  That  business  had  really  been 
settled  at  last,  and  the  blight  on  the  town's  beauty  and  de- 
cency was  to  be  removed.  The  Commissioner  of  Woods  and 
Forests  had  inspected  the  land  and  come  to  terms  with  the 
Corporation.  The  waste  was  to  be  taken  over  by  the  Crown, 
and  notice  was  given  to  the  inhabitants  that  they  must  sur- 
render their  dwellings  after  five  years.  This  might  seem  a 
long  time  to  one  whose  brain  was  big  with  a  Marine  Garden 
and  Aquarium,  but  Monypenny 's  sense  of  justice  accepted 
the  arrangement.  He  would  spend  the  interval  in  perfect- 
ing his  plans.  Meanwhile  he  was  relieved  to  have  the  mat- 
ter settled.  He  had  struggled  long  and  hard  with  the  cal- 
losities and  procrastinations  of  the  law,  sturdily  supported 
by  Vidler,  whose  sense  he  had  come  to  rely  on  and  appre- 
ciate. 

Indeed  a  measure  of  friendship  had  sprung  up  between 
these  two.  Vidler  had  not  the  slightest  pretensions  to  edu- 
cation or  breeding;  he  was  in  many  ways  the  roughest  mem- 
ber of  the  Town  Council,  and  often  came  to  meetings  smell- 
ing of  the  blood  with  which  his  hands  were  stained  on  Sat- 
urday nights,  but  he  entirely  lacked  the  small-souled  vul- 
garity of  Lewnes,  the  avarice  of  Lusted  or  the  windiness  of 


CLIMBING  STREETS  103 

Pelham;  he  was  practical  and  reliable  and  could  understand 
certain  aspects  of  Monypenny's  larger  aims  for  Marlingate. 
The  result  was  that  the  younger  man  moderately  confided 
in  him,  and  the  two  made  many  expeditions  among  the 
shacks,  laying  out  groves  and  rockeries,  erecting  belvederes 
and  reclusing  seats. 

On  their  return  from  one  of  these  rambles  Vidler  asked 
Monypenny  home  to  dinner,  which  he  still  had  at  the  unfash- 
ionable hour  of  five.  He  himself  had  occasionally  attended 
those  solemn  rituals  of  hospitality  at  Gun  Garden  House, 
when  seven  or  eight  gentlemen  would  sit  stiffly  round  the  ma- 
hogany and  stuff  themselves  to  an  accompaniment  of  boneless 
politics;  but  Monypenny  had  never  been  inside  the  house  over 
the  shop  in  Fish  Street,  for  on  the  one  or  two  occasions  Vid- 
ler had  invited  him  to  take  tea,  it  had  been  drunk,  according 
to  local  custom,  on  the  pavement  outside — one  of  the  dis- 
torted survivals  of  French  habit  which  in  some  unchronicled 
way  had  drifted  into  the  life  of  the  fishing  quarter  of  Marlin- 
gate. 

The  house  was  in  the  thick  of  the  fishing  district,  jammed 
between  two  others  of  such  greater  height  and  solidity  that  it 
looked  like  a  small  nut  in  the  crackers.  Within  it  suddenly 
displayed  itself  immense — a  warren  of  inter-opening  rooms 
and  winding  passages,  with  gulfs  of  cupboards  and  a  false 
floor  or  two  dating  from  smuggling  days.  Like  all  else  in 
that  part  of  Marlingate  it  was  impregnated  in  every  seam 
with  the  smell  of  fish  and  dried  spray,  so  intensely  concen- 
trated that  the  odours  which  now  and  then  drifted  up  the 
High  Street  and  caused  genteel  noses  to  wrinkle  were  in  com- 
parison as  the  ghost  to  the  body. 

Monypenny  was  welcomed  by  Mrs.  Vidler,  and  a  niece, 
Fanny.  The  latter  was  a  raw  girl  of  seventeen,  with  red 
hair,  turned-up  nose,  and  wide,  not  unpleasing  mouth.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  Vidler's  only  brother,  who  had  died 
leaving  her  a  good  house  and  a  pretty  piece  of  land  in  the 


104  TAMARISK  TOWN 

parish  of  Old  Rumble  just  outside  the  town,  where  she  lived 
with  a  middle-aged  cousin  who  was  not  present  on  this  oc- 
casion. 

Dinner  consisted  of  a  dish  of  baked  herrings,  a  joint,  and 
an  old-fashioned  salmagundy,  followed  by  pancakes  and 
washed  down  with  plenty  of  Sussex  ale.  Monypenny  en- 
joyed himself — the  good-humoured  casualness  of  the  enter- 
tainment was  a  novelty  to  one  accustomed  to  be  formal  even 
at  a  sea-picnic.  Mrs.  Vidler  was  an  interesting  woman, 
shrewd,  hard-headed  and  kind-hearted  like  her  husband;  she 
had  been  born  a  Gallop,  and  spoke  the  fisher-lingo  much  more 
noticeably  than  the  Alderman,  who  had  spent  his  boyhood  in 
the  west-end  of  the  town  and  had  only  recently  set  up  shop 
among  the  herring-nets.  Fanny  was  not  very  talkative,  but 
grinned  much,  displaying  her  good  white  teeth.  What  struck 
Monypenny  most  about  these  women,  especially  Mrs.  Vid- 
ler, was  their  interest  in  Marlingate  and  acquaintance  with 
the  most  trivial  details  of  its  progress;  he  was  particularly 
impressed  by  the  fact  that  they  were  as  anxious  for  it  to  be 
kept  quiet  and  select  as  if  they  had  been  Hurdicotts 
of  Graveley. 

"We  doan't  want  no  'Ramsgate  Beach'  hereabouts,"  said 
Mrs.  Vidler;  "y°u  know  the  picture? — They've  a  print  of  it 
up  at  the  Maidenhood,  all  performing  mice  and  rabbits  and 
niggers  dancing  to  the  bones.  Them  rarees  aun't  fur  us — 
what  we  want  is  boco  quality,  and  what  quality  wants  is  boco 
fresh  sea  air,  and  bathing,  and  sweet  music.  I'm  fur  none 
of  those  folly  shows;  they  bring  the  wrong  foalkses  down." 

"Well,  it's  the  Alderman  here  as  has  kept  off  all  that," 
said  Vidler.  "There's  some  in  the  Town  Council  as  ud  like 
to  see  us  all  scrambled  up  on  the  beach  so  as  you  couldn't 
get  a  bat  into  the  cracks,  as  ud  rather  see  a  lot  o'  second- 
class  folk  gaping  in  at  their  third-class  shop  winders  than 
those  fine  ladies  and  gentlemen  sitting  elegant  on  the  Par- 
ade and  listening  to  the  band.  When  we  wur  speaking  of 


CLIMBING  STREETS  105 

the  Town  Park  last  Corporation  meeting,  Alderman  Lewnes 
he  ups  and  asks  why  we  shudn't  spend  the  money  on  a  Pier 
instead — a  Pier,  mark  you!  and  have  all  the  Margate  rowdies 
in  with  their  banjos." 

"Lor!"  said  Fanny. 

Monypenny  sat  wondering  how  far  the  attitude  of  these 
people  was  a  reflection  of  his  own,  to  what  extent  he  had 
stamped  his  image  on  the  town,  till  the  whole  pulled  as 
from  one  motive  towards  one  goal.  He  remembered  that  at 
the  beginning  the  concepts  of  his  associates  had  been  hazy  and 
their  activities  scattered;  it  gave  him  a  proud  thrill  to  realise 
how  much  he  had  been  able  to  clarify  and  co-ordinate,  to 
think  that  it  was  his  brain  and  effort  which  had  made  the 
town  what  it  was,  not  only  through  their  own  direct  achieve- 
ment, but  through  the  glorious  indirectness  of  their  dominion 
over  others — so  that  he  was  in  fact  as  well  as  in  spirit  the 
builder  of  Marlingate,  a  Briareus  hundred-headed  and  hun- 
dred-armed. 

After  dinner  he  and  Vidler  went  into  a  little  back  room 
which  was  the  latter's  privacy.  Here  Mrs.  Vidler  brought 
them  a  tray  of  rum  and  Barbadoes  water,  while  she  and 
Fanny  retired  to  take  tea.  Vidler  asked  Monypenny  what 
he  thought  of  Fanny. 

"A  very  pleasant  girl — quiet  and  capable-looking." 

"I  am  glad  you  like  her,  and  I  tell  you  she's  all  you  think. 
She  has  a  valiant  property,  too,  up  at  Old  Rumble." 

"Yes — her  land  touches  mine  on  the  north,  and  I  have 
crossed  it  once  or  twice." 

"You  should  go  over  it.  Fanny  ud  be  delighted,  and  ud 
ask  you  to  drink  tea  afterwards  at  Old  Rumble  House.  I  cud 
see  at  dinner  that  she'd  taken  a  fancy  to  you." 

"Ah,"  said  Monypenny  uninterestedly. 

"I  suppose,"  continued  Vidler,  "that  it  has  never  occurred 
to  you  what  a  happy  thing  it  ud  be  fur  Marlingate  if  the 
two  estates  wur  to  be  joined — there's  a  pretty  lot  of  build- 


106  TAMARISK  TOWN 

ing-ground  up  at  Old  Rumble,  you  cud  run  a  couple  o'  streets 
along  there,  and  a  Square.  Fanny's  a  good  girl  and  ud  like 
nothing  better  than  to  lay  out  her  land  fur  the  town's  ad- 
vantage, and  as  I've  said  before  I  can  plainly  see  as  she's 
taken  a  fancy  to  you." 

"I've  never  thought  of  the  matter,"  said  Monypenny,  "and 
I'm  sure  it's  out  of  the  question." 

"Well,  of  course  you  know  your  own  business  best,  but  I 
couldn't  help  suggesting  it,  like.  It  wur  Mr.  Becket's  wed- 
ding as  put  it  into  my  head,  and  I  thought  as  I'd  ask  Fanny 
down  fur  you  to  have  a  look  at.  But,  bless  you,  there  aun't 
no  offence — of  course  the  gal  aun't  born  your  equal,  though 
she's  plenty  of  money,  and  her  mother  wur  a  lot  above  us 
Vidlers." 

"I  am  making  no  reflection  on  her,"  said  Monypenny  stiffly. 
"I  have  not  the  slightest  inclination  to  marry  and  shall  prob- 
ably never  do  so." 

Vidler  was  wise  enough  to  change  the  subject,  and  they 
spoke  of  town  matters  till  Monypenny  went  home. 

That  night,  however,  the  question  revived  in  the  young 
man's  brain.  He  could  not  ignore  the  fact  that  Vidler  had 
made  an  exceedingly  practical  suggestion.  If  he  meant  to 
marry,  it  would  be  diplomatic  to  marry  locally,  and  Fanny, 
though  not  exactly  his  equal  in  birth,  was  well  connected 
municipally  and  socially,  and  had  the  further  advantages  of 
a  fortune  and  an  estate.  She  seemed  a  good  girl  too,  and 
would  be  easy  to  live  with.  Also,  if  he  married,  he  told  him- 
self he  would  be  definitely  secured  against  such  follies  as 
that  which  had  nearly  ruined  him  nine  months  ago.  A  nice 
comfortable  little  wife,  and  a  child  or  two.  .  .  . 

Bah!  All  that  was  in  him  of  the  adventurer  and  the  ex- 
plorer resented  such  a  commonplace  assumption  of  a  yoke.  If 
he  must  marry  he  would  marry  romantically,  on  a  scale 
worthy  of  his  life-work  for  Marlingate.  But  there  was  no 
real  reason  why  he  should  marry  at  all — he  prized  his  eel- 


CLIMBING  STREETS  107 

ibacy,  its  dignity,  its  freedom,  its  immunity  from  domestic 
cares  and  intrusions.  He  was  not  like  other  men,  craving  for 
warmth  and  love,  he  was  strong  enough  to  stand  aloof  from 
the  soft  things  of  life  in  his  pursuit  of  the  great.  He  had 
civic  rather  than  domestic  instincts.  It  is  true  that  he  had 
been  mad  once,  but  that  was  another  Monypenny,  a 
changeling  who  by  some  spell  had  been  freakishly  set  in 
his  place  for  a  few  wild  moments  at  French  Landing,  but 
now  merely  haunted  the  woods  which  day  by  day  Marlin- 
gate  drove  further  from  its  streets. 

§4 

The  next  five  years  were  crowded  and  progressive,  ac- 
cording to  the  sedate  manner  of  Marlingate's  crowds  and 
progresses.  Becker  Grove  was  finished  up  to  its  latest  con- 
nection with  Rye  Lane,  which  Monypenny  had  called  Lewnes 
Road — half  in  scornful  acceptance  of  a  hint  from  his  fellow  al- 
derman, half  in  fiery  remembrance  of  that  triumphal  Star, 
whose  rays  were  Bonaparte's  marshals,  streaming  from  the 
central  greatness. 

The  Rye  Lane  villas  were  finished  and  let,  and  houses  had 
sprung  up  on  the  London  Road  outside  the  Warriors  Gate, 
driving  the  woods  still  further  back  into  the  weald.  On  the 
Marine  Parade,  the  Marine  Hotel  had  opened,  and  was  full 
of  the  elect.  The  water-works  and  drainage  system  had  been 
finished  long  ago,  also  the  repairing  and  relighting  of  the 
streets.  Marlingate  was  now  complete  as  to  essentials,  and 
had  only  to  be  stroked  and  caressed  into  further  ornament. 

There  was  by  this  time  plenty  of  money  in  the  town,  al- 
lowing a  free  hand  to  its  improvers.  The  tide  of  visitors 
had  not  increased — about  the  same  number  of  people  came 
down  every  year,  either  Summer  or  Winter — but  on  the  other 
hand  the  residents  had  increased  enormously.  From  one  or 
two  pioneers  in  Becket  Grove  or  the  newer  Coney  Bank 


io8  TAMARISK  TOWN 

houses,  they  had  come  to  fill  a  residential  hinterland,  which, 
with  Becket  Grove  as  its  backbone,  ribbed  east  and  west  from 
the  London  Road  to  Rye  Lane.  These  were  the  people  who 
brought  the  town  its  prosperity,  as  they  not  only  spent  money 
more  substantially  than  the  visitors,  but  paid  rates  and  taxes, 
and  provided  an  aristocratic  background  to  the  bourgeois,  if 
picturesque,  High  Street  and  Fish  Street.  Their  carriages 
rolled  elegantly  up  and  down  the  Marine  Parade,  and  their 
private  entertainments  filled  gaps  in  the  succession  of  balls 
and  concerts  at  the  Assembly  Room.  They  remarkably  en- 
couraged local  trade — shops  became  suddenly  double-fronted, 
diamond  panes  flourished  into  plate  glass,  fashionable  Lon- 
don goods  were  no  longer  mere  objects  of  curiosity  and  con- 
templation. 

Monypenny  saw  that  it  was  politic  to  put  the  residents 
before  the  visitors  when  making  plans  for  the  town.  This 
was  one  reason  why  he  steadfastly  opposed  the  Pier  scheme, 
brought  forward  by  Lewnes  and  Lusted.  A  Pier  would  spoil 
the  sea-front  and  attract  undesirable  excursionists  from  less 
genteel  towns — far  better  spend  the  Corporation's  money  on 
gardens  and  packs,  or  houses  of  the  superior  kind.  From  the 
same  motive  he  fought  the  constantly  recurring  demand  for 
shops  on  the  Parade,  also  an  occasional  proposal  for  streets 
of  small  houses  to  attract  residents  of  lesser  means.  He  told 
the  Borough  Council  that  quality,  not  quantity,  must  be  their 
watch-word.  He  felt  that  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  increase 
Marlingate's  size  to  any  great  extent,  and  he  had  no  wish  to 
attract  lower-middle  class  residents.  It  was  not  size,  noise, 
or  numbers  that  he  wanted,  but  beauty,  aristocracy,  and 
peace.  There  were  Margates  and  Southends  enough  in 
England — he  wanted  Marlingate  to  stand  alone,  an  achieve- 
ment apart  from  other  seaside  towns. 

He  was  supported  by  the  Town  Council — even  though 
Lewnes  and  Lusted  might  blunder  in  with  coarse,  cheese- 
smelling  suggestions,  they  could  nearly  always  be  convinced 


CLIMBING  STREETS  109 

of  their  inexpediency.  Pelham,  Wastel,  Vidler,  Breeds,  Bond 
and  one  or  two  of  the  new  residents  who  had  been  elected  on 
the  Council  and  Town  Committee  were  whole-heartedly  on 
Monypenny's  side. 

Becket,  during  these  years,  came  seldom  to  Marlingate,  and 
his  family  not  at  all.  But  his  name  remained  on  the  Town 
Committee,  and  he  continued  to  be  generous  from  a  dis- 
tance, always  ready  to  contribute  to  Borough  improvements, 
and  liberally  financing  the  development  of  the  Gun  Garden 
estate.  When  he  was  in  the  town,  which  was  never  more  than 
a  day  or  two  at  a  time,  he  stayed  at  the  Marine  Hotel.  Some- 
times Monypenny  asked  after  Mrs.  Becket  and  was  told  that 
she  was  well,  but  preferred  an  inland  spa  to  Marlingate,  hav- 
ing friends  at  Cheltenham,  with  whom  she  spent  much  of  her 
time.  He  had  also  taken  her  abroad,  and  it  appeared  that 
she  was  a  success  in  Eaton  Square,  where  she  entertained  dis- 
criminatingly at  her  husband's  house.  Becket  confided  to 
Monypenny  that  the  Hurdicotts  still  treated  him  with  cold- 
ness, but  that  they  had  thawed  considerably  during  the  last 
year  or  two,  and  he  was  not  without  hopes  of  a  complete 
reconciliation. 

Somehow  the  news  made  Monypenny  rather  hot  and  sore — 
he  had  liked  to  dwell  on  the  ineligibility  of  Morgan  Wells,  and 
here  she  was  showing  herself  surprisingly  capable  of  social 
dignity,  and  becoming  her  new  position.  He  remembered  her 
stateliness  at  the  ball — after  all,  even  in  those  far-off  days 
he  might  have  seen.  .  .  .  "She's  a  wonderful  woman,"  said 
Becket,  in  the  tone  that  he  used  to  keep  for  the  virtues  of  his 
first  wife. 

§5 

The  Town  Park  was  the  crown  of  Monypenny's  ambition 
for  Marlingate.  It  would  not  be  the  last  item  in  the  plan  of 
general  improvement — circumstances  pushed  the  Marine  Gar- 
dens to  a  later  date — but  it  should  be  the  chief.  It  was  ad- 


no  TAMARISK  TOWN 

mirably  in  line  with  that  formal  streak  which  ran  through  all 
his  aims.  Just  as  he  had  once  wanted  to  gather  up  all  the 
red  and  black  riot  of  the  town  into  one  long  gleaming  front- 
age, as  obstinately  stuck  to  his  Marine  Parade  as  any1  worship- 
per of  Brighton  and  the  Steyn,  so  he  wanted  now  to  clip  the 
wind-shuttle  thickets  of  the  Wilderness  into  a  paradisal  trim- 
ness.  But  in  his  desire  was  nothing  banal  or  Philistine.  His 
Park  was  a  dream  just  as  his  Parade  had  been,  a  thing  of  un- 
seizable  beauty  like  the  other. 

"I  can  give  you  only  the  carcase  of  what  you  want,"  said 
Decimus  Figg,  when  he  was  consulted.  He  was  a  rising  man 
now,  no  longer  the  cheap  convenient  creature  the  Corporation 
used  half-contemptuously  to  employ;  but  Monypenny  had  in- 
sisted on  retaining  him  in  spite  of  subdued  clamours  for  some- 
one less  expensive. 

"It's  the  same  as  with  the  Marine  Parade  at  the  begin- 
ning," continued  the  architect;  "I  knew  then  you  had  in  your 
mind  something  which  could  never  be  accomplished." 

"How  d'you  mean?"  asked  Monypenny.  They  were  sit- 
ting in  the  study  at  Gun  Garden  House,  smoking  cigars  and 
drinking  marsala,  with  a  litter  of  plans  before  them.  They 
were  now  friends,  or  as  near  friends  as  anyone  ever  came  to 
be  with  Monypenny. 

"Well,  the  fact  is,  you're  too  much  of  a  dreamer  for  this 
job." 

"I  don't  understand  you  quite.    Am  I  not  practical?" 

"Yes — quite  practical.  It's  rather  difficult  to  explain  what 
I  mean.  You  see  it's  like  this — usually  when  people  ask  me  to 
design  a  Town  Park  or  a  Town  Hall,  I  know  I  can  satisfy 
them.  As  long  as  the  thing  is  practical,  and  not  too  ugly,  or 
ugly  in  the  way  they  want,  I  know  it  will  come  up  to  their 
expectations.  But  I  know  that  nothing  I  can  design  will  come 
up  to  yours.  I  can  please  you,  but  I  can't  satisfy  you — see?" 

Monypenny  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  he  asked: 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 


CLIMBING  STREETS  ill 

> 

"Nothing  particular;  but  there's  something  about  you — it's 
very  difficult  to  describe,  and  you  probably  think  me  an  idiot 
— that  shows  me  you're  the  wrong  man  for  this  job." 

Monypenny  was  startled. 

"You're  the  first  to  tell  me  that." 

"I'm  quite  sure  I  am." 

"Do  you  mean  that  I'm  wasting  myself  on  my  work  or  that 
my  work  is  wasted  on  me?" 

"Neither.  But  you're  putting  too  much  emotion  into  it, 
and  in  the  end  that  will  react  both  on  the  town  and  on  your- 
self." 

"You  think  I  should  have  some  more  definitely  artistic 
means  of  expression?" 

"That's  partly  the  idea.  Marlingate  isn't  big  enough  for 
you." 

"What  could  I  find  bigger?" 

"That  I  can't  say.  But  I'm  sure  you  are  not  the  man  to 
find  satisfaction  in  the  concrete  and  you're  bound  to  suffer 
if  you  try  to  do  so.  You  need  some  kind  of  art  into  which  to 
put  your  best  emotions;  I  don't  know  which  kind  especially 
— it  may  be  music,  or  poetry,  or  perhaps  a  woman." 

"A  woman!' 

"Yes,  why  not?  Some  men  are  born  poets  and  some  mu- 
sicians, and  some,  though  only  a  few,  are  born  lovers." 

"Then  you  look  upon  love  as  a  department  of  art.  I  should 
have  called  it  nature." 

"Not  a  bit.  Desire  is  natural,  but  love  is  the  artistic  cul- 
mination of  desire,  just  as  poetry  is  the  artistic  culmination 
of  speech — and  real  love  is  about  as  rare  as  real  poetry." 

Monpenny  smiled. 

"Surely  if  I  had  been  born  to  anything  beyond  this  I 
should  have  discovered  it  by  now." 

"Hardly — since  from  your  boyhood  you  have  shut  yourself 
up  in  streets  and  told  yourself  they  were  the  universe.  I  don't 
know  what  you  were  born  for,  but  I  know — by  a  dozen  tokens 


112  TAMARISK  TOWN 

— that  this  sort  of  thing  isn't  your  birthright.  You  were  bora 
to  be  an  artist  or  a  lover." 

Monypenny  stood  up,  to  end  the  conversation,  which  had 
begun  to  annoy  him. 

"My  dear  Figg,  I  was  born  to  be  Mayor  of  Marlingate." 

§6 

For  some  months  there  were  murmurs  in  the  town  about 
Monypenny's  possible  acceptance  of  the  mayoralty.  Hitherto 
he  had  declined  the  office,  first  on  account  of  his  youth,  later 
because  it  had  seemed  cumbrous  and  unnecessary  to  his  ob- 
ject. Pelham,  who  after  a  year  of  Wastel  and  another  of 
Breeds,  had  returned  to  power,  was  absolutely  the  right  man 
for  the  job — suave,  impressive,  inactive,  the  ideal  figurehead. 
Monypenny  had  always  ruled  the  town  in  practice,  so  had 
been  quite  content  to  leave  it  to  others  in  theory.  But  now  Pel- 
ham  spoke  of  resignation.  Monypenny  suggested  that  his  son, 
who  was  like  him  in  many  ways,  should  be  asked  to  succeed 
him,  but  Robert  had  just  married  a  wife  and  declined  the  hon- 
our for  that  scriptural  reason.  Then  there  was  talk  of  Lewnes. 
Lewnes  was  popular  on  the  Town  Council,  and  the  only  man 
who  had  it  in  him  to  be  a  municipal  power  after  the  manner 
of  Monypenny;  not  that  he  had  his  brains  or  width  of  en- 
terprise, but  he  had  horns  and  hide — a  strong  push  and  a 
thick  skin — which  sometimes  answer  just  as  well.  He  let  it 
be  known  that  he  would  gladly  take  office  if  he  had  the 
chance.  Monypenny  resolved  he  should  never  have  that 
chance,  and  the  best  way  to  prevent  it  was  to  take  it  himself. 

But  this  was  not  his  only  reason  for  coming  forward.  He 
saw  he  had  reached  that  stage  in  his  career  when  the  office 
would  be  an  added  dignity,  and  one  which  would  neither  clog 
nor  stale  him.  As  Mayor  his  unofficial  headship  of  Marlin- 
gate would  receive  municipal  sanction;  he  came  forward  to 
receive  the  benediction  of  the  town  as  a  bridegroom  to  re- 


CLIMBING  STREETS  113 

ceive  the  benediction  of  the  church.  His  love  wanted  that 
much  of  sanctification. 

He  also  saw  that  there  was  a  widespread  demand  for  him 
to  take  office.  He  was  popular  among  the  visitors  and  among 
the  residents,  old  and  new.  The  exact  reason  for  his  popu- 
larity would  be  hard  to  define — he  was  aloof,  formal,  oddly 
ungracious,  autocratic,  and  yet  he  was  liked  by  almost  every- 
one with  whom  he  came  in  contact  socially  or  municipally. 
The  cause  lay  doubtless  in  the  double  sense  of  trust  and  re- 
spect which  he  inspired  among  his  associates  in  borough  en- 
terprise, and  the  becoming  veil  of  mystery  which  graced  him 
in  social  matters.  It  was  the  entire  absence  of  anything  ro- 
mantic which  had  made  him  a  figure  of  romance  to  visit- 
ing young  ladies — no  one  could  be  so  cloudily  remote  from 
the  vital  matters  of  love  without  having  a  secret  history  packed 
with  their  activities.  His  rather  saturnine  good  looks,  his  man- 
ner with  women  both  stiff  and  courtly,  won  him  the  good 
graces  of  those  who  were  weary  of  the  easy  accessibility  of 
most  of  bis  sex,  just  as  his  solid  and  solemn  hospitality  won 
him  the  approval  of  their  husbands  and  fathers.  He  was  un- 
doubtedly as  much  the  chief  figure  of  Marlingate  from  the  so- 
cial as  from  the  civic  point  of  view,  his  spiritual  remoteness 
balancing  the  effect  of  that  odd  boyish  greediness  for  festiv- 
ity and  brightness  which  contrasted  so  strangely  with  his  her- 
mit-like habits  at  Gun  Garden  House. 

That  same  remoteness  served  him  well  on  the  Town  Coun- 
cil, for  though  it  stimulated  the  respect  and  trust  with  which 
his  colleagues  viewed  him,  it  staved  off  any  personal  hatred 
which  his  power  and  autocracy  might  have  roused.  Hatred  is 
the  most  personal  of  emotions,  and  Monypenny  was  oddly 
impersonal  to  all  outside  him.  He  was  less  of  a  man  to  his 
associates  than  the  incarnate  trinity  of  an  active  brain,  a  cul- 
tivated taste  and  a  practical  ambition.  As  the  years  went  by 
he  seemed  to  grow  more  and  more  abstract  to  those  about  him 


114  TAMARISK  TOWN 

— to  women  alone  he  was  sometimes,  by  virtue  of  his  mys- 
tery, a  man. 

About  this  time  appeared  the  Marlingate  Courier,  the  first 
local  paper.  Bond  of  the  Library,  now  Alderman  Bond,  was 
the  editor,  having  whetted  his  literary  appetite  on  successive 
guide-books  till  nothing  could  satisfy  it  short  of  a  weekly 
newspaper,  written  entirely  by  himself  and  one  assistant,  with 
a  few  "select  poems"  from  talented  and  pseudonymed  visit- 
ors. The  Courier  soon  began  to  agitate  for  Monypenny's  elec- 
tion as  Mayor,  it  distributed  hints  even  as  far  as  its  fashion 
column,  worked  them  into  its  review  of  Romola,  and  finally 
developed  them  in  two  lengthy  editorials,  which  were  quoted 
by  the  Sussex  News. 

When  November  came,  it  was  known  in  all  town  circles 
that  Monypenny  would  accept  office,  and  at  the  first  Cor- 
poration meeting  after  the  municipal  elections,  he  was  sol- 
emnly chosen  by  the  Councillors  and  Aldermen.  The  ob- 
servant noticed  a  faint  tremulous  flush  mount  his  cheeks  as  he 
sat  for  the  first  time  with  the  Mayoral  chain  on  his  breast, 
and  the  sentimental  put  down  the  hesitation  and  pauses  of 
his  first  speech  to  emotion.  It  was  odd,  but  directly  Mony- 
penny became  Mayor,  the  office  clothed  itself  in  glamour,  not; 
only  for  romantically-minded  women,  but  for  the  more  stolid 
imaginations  of  the  Borough  Council.  He  seemed  to  trans- 
mute it  into  something  eager  and  spiritual — he  was  the  High 
Priest  of  the  town,  pontifical  in  his  black  and  scarlet  robes, 
performing  rites  and  offering  sacrifices. 

A  week  later,  when  according  to  custom  the  Mayor  and 
Corporation  went  in  state  to  St.  Nicholas  Church,  the  whole 
town  turned  out  on  the  pavements,  and  the  visitors,  who  had 
hitherto  held  aloof  from  mere  civic  pageantry,  crowded  the 
windows  to  watch  the  young  Mayor  drive  down  the  High 
Street,  in  his  robes  and  cocked  hat,  with  his  postilions  before 
and  his  mace-bearers  behind.  A  few  young  ladies  threw  flow- 
ers into  the  carriage,  to  the  horror  of  their  mammas;  the  shop- 


CLIMBING  STREETS  115 

people  cheered  from  their  doorways;  the  church-bells  crashed 
and  jangled;  and  even  the  children  in  the  street  ran  shouting, 
"Monypenny!  Monypenny!  Mayor  of  Marlingate!" 

It  was  his  triumph,  and  he  knew  now  partly  why  he  had 
postponed  it.  He  had  wished  it  to  be  the  crown  of  his  achieve- 
ments, he  had  wished  to  save  it  for  the  hour  when  he  could 
look  round  on  his  ambition  realised — Marlingate  aflame  with 
elegance  and  fashion,  prosperous,  festive,  complete.  He  had 
left  the  years  of  effort  to  Pelham's  decoration,  while  he  worked 
and  planned  uncumbered  by  office.  Now  his  throne  was  built, 
and  he  ascended  it. 

His  eyes  were  bright  and  his  face  was  pale  with  triumph 
as  he  sat  there  alone  in  the  huge  carriage,  rolling  and  sway- 
ing on  its  springs.  His  excitement  gave  him  an  unusually 
eager,  boyish  look,  so  that  in  all  his  mayoral  trappings  he 
seemed  younger  than  when  dancing  in  the  Assembly  Rooms)  or 
picnicking  on  the  cliffs.  In  spite  of  his  stateliness,  he  was 
frankly  excited,  and  a  little  shy.  His  burning,  youthful  ex- 
citement seemed  to  lighten  the  dark  cast  of  his  face.  The 
women  thought  him  handsomer  than  ever,  the  men  found  for 
him  a  new  kindliness  in  their  hearts;  only  one — and  she  was 
a  woman,  Lady  Cockstreet — thought  he  looked  pathetic,  sitting 
there  alone. 

"Monypenny!  Monypenny!  Mayor  of  Marlingate!"  The 
boys  shouted,  and  the  bells  seemed  to  be  ringing  it  now,  as 
Highgate  bells  had  rung  to  Dick  Whittington,  though  this 
time  not  in  promise  but  in  fulfilment.  He  sat  there  erect  and 
proud,  with  shoulders  straight  under  the  heavy  yoke  of  his 
honour,  flushed,  triumphant,  his  mind  at  once  giddy  and  serene 
with  the  sense  of  consummation.  At  thirty-five  he  had  won 
his  great  ambition,  still  young  and  full  of  work  he  had  seen 
the  effort  of  his  life  materialise.  Marlingate  was  what  he 
had  planned  to  make  it,  and  he  was  Mayor  of  Marlingate. 

"Monypenny!  Monypenny!  Mayor  of  Marlingate!"  The 
people  shouted  it,  the  bells  clanged  it,  and  in  his  heart  it  was 


ii6  TAMARISK  TOWN 

being  sung — his  triumph,  his  victory,  this  battle  he  had  won 
over  circumstances,  himself,  that  weakening  sense  of  "beyond- 
ness,"  that  unrest  of  the  woods  and  the  sea.  .  .  .  The  woods 
were  now  being  cut  and  clipped  into  the  order  of  the  Town 
Park;  the  sea  was  shut  away  beyond  the  shining  austerity  of 
the  Marine  Parade.  His  little  bit  of  time  had  been  able  to 
chain  and  subdue  those  two  boasting  forces  of  eternity,  and 
he,  himself,  who  had  found  their  treacheries  within  him,  wore 
a  chain,  the  Mayor's  chain  of  office — the  heavy  pompous  yoke 
that  bound  him  forever  to  the  triumph  he  had  won. 

§7 

In  the  spring  of  '64  the  Town  Park  was  finished.  It  cov- 
ered the  site  of  the  Wilderness  and  of  the  Market-place,  the 
latter  having  been  moved  by  the  Corporation  to  Gingerbread 
Green,  outside  the  Warriors'  Gate.  The  grounds  contained  the 
old  Slough  with  its  ring  of  tamarisks,  now  transformed  into 
an  ornamental  pond  with  a  trim  little  island  in  the  middle 
and  an  importation  of  waterfowl.  Out  of  the  Slough  ran  the 
stream  that  had  once  been  indecorously  known  as  the  Gut's 
Mouth,  now  renamed,  the  Marlin — which  gave  pomposity 
both  to  its  rather  insignificant  waters  and  to  the  town  which 
reddened  them  with  its  reflected  walls.  "Marlingate  on  the 
Marlin"  was  gracious  in  the  ears  of  the  Corporation. 

Across  the  Town  Park  ran  a  carriage-way,  in  the  place  of 
the  old  road,  edged  with  trees  and  a  grass  border.  In  the 
middle  of  its  course  it  looped  out  suddenly  round  a  band-stand, 
not  a  white  Moorish  dome  like  that  on  the  Parade  but  daintily 
classic  like  a  Trianon  belvedere.  Southwards  to  the  town, 
northwards  to  the  woods  behind  the  prim  battlements  of 
Becket  Grove,  stretched  lawns  and  parterres,  with  arbours  both 
open  and  reclused,  and  in  the  southwest  corner  a  maze  crept, 
neither  too  simple  nor  too  intricate,  always  smelling  sweetly 
of  its  clipped  box  walls. 


CLIMBING  STREETS  117 

The  Town  Park  was  as  Monypenny  would  have  had  it,  as 
far  as  his  dream  had  any  truck  with  reality.  It  was  part  of 
that  delicate  tinted  formality  into  which  his  ambition  always 
poured  itself,  however  far  it  might  spread  beyond  and  frame 
the  charming  picture  with  a  cloud  of  sun  and  whirlwind.  Now 
he  scarcely  thought  of  the  frame  in  his  appreciation  of  the 
picture — he  could  delight  in  its  pastel  shades  even  if  they  had 
caught  only  half  his  fires,  tread  its  sedate  walks  forgetful  of 
the  summoning  highway.  Decimus  Figg  had  made  the  Park 
a  place  of  paradisal  beauty,  and  if  a  mediaeval  saint  could 
dream  his  eternity  into  a  formal  garden,  so  could  Monypenny 
find  for  his  ambition  a  place  of  refreshment,  rest  and  peace 
among  those  spreads. of  shaven  green  and  solemn  bloom. 

All  that  the  Town  Park  wanted  was  a  ceremonial  opening. 
For  a  long  time  Monypenny  pondered  it  and  the  Corporation 
discussed  it.  Then  suddenly  he  startled  them  by  saying  that 
Royalty  must  be  invited.  Nothing  less  than  the  Blood  Royal 
was  worthy  to  set  the  crown  on  Marlingate.  The  Town  Coun- 
cil, who  had  been  talking  about  Lady  Cockstreet  and  the 
Mayor  of  Brighton,  were  aghast  at  his  boldness.  But  Mony- 
penny would  not  listen  to  their  timid  persuasions — his  mind 
was  set  on  the  very  best  for  his  town.  He  made  plans  and 
enquiries,  and  at  last  suggested  to  his  Aldermen  that  Princess 
Sophia  of  Worcester  should  be  approached.  He  had  written 
to  Hugo  Becket  on  the  matter  and  Becket  had  no  doubt  but 
that  he  could  approach  the  Princess  through  the  Lincoln  Duke 
and  Duchess.  Becket,  perhaps  a  little  ashamed  of  his  re- 
moteness from  Marlingate,  was  willing  to  do  all  in  his  power 
to  develop  the  present  crisis  in  its  glory.  A  long  correspond- 
ence followed  between  him  and  Monypenny.  Princess  Sophia 
was  approached  first  indirectly  by  the  Lincolns,  then  directly 
by  the  Corporation,  and  early  in  May  the  warm  throbbing 
air  of  Marlingate  parties  hummed  with  the  murmur  that  a 
Royal  Princess  would  open  the  Town  Park. 

The  murmur  became  a  voice  and  the  voice  roared  into  a 


ii8  TAMARISK  TOWN 

general  shout  of  excitement.  The  opening  of  the  Park  would 
be  the  highest  festival  the  town  had  ever  known.  All  the 
aristocracy  of  the  county  would  be  there,  the  Duke  and  Duch- 
ess of  Lincoln  would  support  the  Princess,  also  the  Lord  War- 
den of  the  Cinque  Ports  and  other  notabilities.  Moreover,  it 
was  said  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Becket  would  come  down  to  Mar- 
lingate  on  this  great  occasion. 

§8 

The  ceremony  was  fixed  for  early  June.  The  heat  came  soon 
that  year;  there  was  no  aftermath  crop  of  April  weather,  just 
a  hot  sweet  flow  of  days,  tawnied  with  thick  sunshine,  drowsy 
under  a  burden  of  heavy  scent  and  muffled  sound.  In  the 
Town  Park  the  rhododendrons  faded  and  the  roses  bloomed. 
Their  languorous  reds  spotted  and  blurred  on  the  thickets, 
and  their  perfume  stole  fugitive  down  the  staid  paths,  as  if  a 
running  shepherdess  should  find  her  way  into  a  Friar's  garden. 

The  town  flowered,  too,  with  flags  and  bunting.  Banners 
waved  across  the  High  Street  and  triumphal  arches  spread 
their  welcome  from  one  parapet  to  another.  Along  the  Mar- 
ine Parade  glittered  a  string  of  coloured  lights,  tossing  at  dusk 
their  reflections  into  the  black  sighing  mirror  of  the  sea. 

The  Princess  would  not  stay  more  than  a  day,  but  a  week 
had  been  fixed  as  the  limit  of  the  feast,  a  week  stuffed  with 
dancing,  dining,  music  and  gaiety,  and  garnished  with  civic 
pomp.  There  wasi  to  be  a  big  ball  at  the  Assembly  Room,  and 
a  municipal  card-party.  One  or  two  important  families,  such 
as  the  Leo  Hurdicotts  and  the  Pelhams,  were  giving  private 
dances,  and  Lady  Cockstreet  had  sent  out  invitations  for  a 
conversazione.  The  Town  Committee,  with  Monypenny  at 
their  head,  worked  hard  so  that  there  should  be  no  clashing 
of  dates  or  overlapping  of  ceremonies.  Marlingate  blossomed 
like  a  flower.  It  seemed  to  realise  and  fulfil  its  township, 
claiming  for  its  streets  the  beauty  some  would  grant  only  to 


CLIMBING  STREETS  119 

lanes  and  meadows.  It  lay  rose-red  in  the  calyx  of  the  hills, 
faintly  smudged  with  the  green  of  its  tamarisks,  as  they 
ringed  it  round,  and  splashed  as  with  sea-water  the  warm 
bloom  of  its  ways. 

When  the  great  day  came  the  Mayor  and  Corporation  met 
the  Princess's  train.  Then  there  was  a  solemn  procession 
through  the  town — down  the  Station  Road,  up  the  High  Street, 
along  Becket  Grove,  then  down  Fish  Street  and  along  the  Pa- 
rade to  the  Marine  Hotel.  Monypenny  had  personally  planned 
this  proqession,  which  he  intended  as  a  triumphal  prog- 
ress and  display,  and  oddly  enough  there  was  nothing  ridic- 
ulous about  it.  That  which  might  easily  have  been  a  mere 
bourgeois  parade — a  fat  German  princess,  Mayor  and  Corpo- 
ration— assumed  the  peculiar  dignity  of  consecration  which 
Monypenny  brought  to  his  office.  The  ridiculous  might  out- 
weigh the  sublime  in  that  pompous  march  past  of  horsemen 
and  carriages,  that  flourishing  of  maces  and  coats-of-arms.  But 
somehow  it  was  no  more  apparent  than  in  the  Mayor's  cocked 
hat  and  black  and  crimson  robes,  which  no  one  would  ever 
dream  of  calling  ridiculous  on  Monypenny.  It  was  all  part 
of  the  Municipal  Idea  which  he  had  sanctified. 

First  of  all  came  the  Princess's  carriage,  drawn  by  two 
white  horses,  and  after  her  the  Lincoln  Duke  and  Duchess, 
demi-royal.  Then  came  Monypenny  erect  and  solitary  in 
front  of  his  mace-bearers.  Lewnes,  Pelham,  Lusted  and  Bond 
followed  in  a  fourth  carriage.  Robert  Pelham  and  Leo  Hur- 
dicott  were  on  horseback,  riding  each  side  of  the  Princess, 
and  Wastel  and  Breeds  and  other  gentlemen  were  also 
mounted.  At  the  end  of  the  procession  was  a  long  tail  of  pri- 
vate carriages,  barouches  and  gigs,  bright  with  the  shawls  and 
parasols  of  Hurdicotts,  Papillons  and  other  notables.  Becket 
was  there,  looking  older  and  heavily  whiskered,  but  his  wife 
did  not  drive  with  him.  She  had  brought  her  baby  with  her 
to  Marlingate — a  girl  born  at  the  beginning  of  the  year — and 


120  TAMARISK  TOWN 

Becket  told  Monypenny  that  some  ailment  of  the  child  had 
kept  her  at  home  that  morning. 

The  procession  stopped  at  the  Marine  Hotel  for  a  cere- 
monial luncheon.  The  Princess  was  all  praise  and  gracious- 
ness,  so  that  one  forgot  her  German  accent,  her  unwieldy 
figure,  unfashionably  large  bonnet  and  still  larger  appetite. 
She  thoroughly  enjoyed  her  meal  and  allowed  a  little  personal 
flattery  to  spice  her  thanks  to  the  young  Mayor. 

After  lunch  the  great  ceremony  of  the  day  took  place  in  the 
Town  Park.  The  Princess  made  a  formal  speech,  which 
sounded  curiously  unlike  her.  She  stood  under  a  big  willow  (a 
survivor  of  the  Wilderness),  a  sweep  of  lawn  dividing  her 
from  the  common  crowd,  while  a  favoured  aristocracy  grouped 
round  her.  Monypenny  stood  by  her  side  in  his  Mayoral 
robes.  He  felt  hot  under  their  weight  and  blazing  colour,  his 
forehead  was  wet  in  the  grip  of  the  Mayoral  hat — and  some 
of  the  drowsiness  of  heat  settled  on  him,  losing  the  Princess's 
words  in  a  blur  of  sound  and  her  substantial  figure  in  the  haz- 
ing green  of  lawns  and  thickets. 

Then  a  movement  in  the  crowd  diverted  him.  He  looked 
up,  and  saw  that  the  Princess  had  finished  speaking,  and  that 
towards  her  over  the  lawn  a  flower  was  moving.  Crimson  and 
silken,  a  peony  trailing  its  crinkled  petals  over  the  grass,  it 
came.  Monypenny  watched  it,  watched  this  woman  who  was 
a  flower  in  her  streaked  splendour,  her  wind-swung  grace,  her 
soft  yet  flaming  transparency  of  colour.  She  came  across  the 
lawn,  carrying  a  bouquet  which  she  offered  to  the  Princess, 
looking  more  than  ever  peony-like  when  she  curtseyed  low, 
her  crimson  petals  spreading  round  her  over  the  grass.  Mony- 
penny's  eyes  were  slowly  dragged  towards  her  by  a  power 
which  was  both  without  and  within  him — following  her  till 
she  vanished  into  the  boskage  of  women  about  the  Princess. 
And  even  then  the  lawn  seemed  to  shimmer  and  glow  with 
her  brightness. 


CLIMBING  STREETS  121 

He  could  hear  a  murmur  in  his  ears.  It  came  from  Becket, 
whose  whiskers  brushed  his  robe: 

"She's  a  wonderful  woman,  Monypenny,  a  wonderful  wo- 
man— my  wife." 

§9 

So  Morgan  le  Fay  had  come  back  to  Tamarisk  Town. 
Monypenny  accepted  the  fact  quite  calmly,  without  any 
warmth  in  his  blood  or  a  quickened  beat  of  that  heart  which 
had  leaped  so  madly  once  at  French  Landing.  There  was  in 
her  return  something  strangely  like  the  fulfilment  of  the  ex- 
pected— something  inevitable,  like  the  return  of  Spring.  He 
had  never  thought  she  would  come  back,  and  yet  now  she 
had  come  he  looked  upon  it  as  the  keeping  of  a  promise,  the 
promise  which  Marlingate  had  held  in  its  heart  all  these  years. 
Scent  and  sound,  emotion  and  sensation,  seemed  to  mingle  and 
swoon — and  yet  he  was  curiously  untroubled;  he  stood  quietly 
beside  the  Princess  in  the  lengthening  shadows  of  the  Town 
Park,  watching  the  sunshine  blazing  on  the  roses,  by  some  in- 
explicable means  relieved  of  the  heat  of  his  robes  and  the 
weight  of  his  Mayoral  chain. 

The  ceremony  was  over,  the  crowd  broke  into  separate  col- 
ours, and  sprinkled  itself  over  the  Town  Park  like  a  scat- 
tered posy.  The  Mayor  and  Corporation  solemnly  escorted 
Sophia  of  Worcester  to  her  train,  and  went  home  convinced, 
in  direct  contrast  to  the  morning's  emotions,  that  they  had  be- 
stowed a  signal  honour  upon  her  in  asking  her  to  visit  Mar- 
lingate. 

Monypenny,  after  disrobing  at  the  Town  Hall,  went  straight 
to  the  Marine  Hotel,  where  the  Beckets  were  staying.  There 
was  a  strange,  tumbling  eagerness  about  him.  He  did  not  stop 
to  question  his  delight,  just  let  it  run  through  him  like  Spring 
sap,  calling  the  hidden  boy,  which  cropped  out  so  oddly  at 
times  from  his  municipal  staidness.  Part  of  his  excitement 
spilled  over  in  a  new  enthusiasm  for  Becket.  Becket  had  be- 


122  TAMARISK  TOWN 

haved  splendidly — Marlingate  could  never  have  reached  its 
present  glory  without  him.  It  was  true  that  he  would  not  in 
the  end  lose  by  his  generosity,  but  he  had  stuck  to  the  town 
through  years  of  absence  with  an  extraordinary  faithfulness,, 
ignoring  no  loan,  subscription  list  or  borough  enterprise. 
Monypenny's  heart  glowed  towards  him,  in  spite  of  that  deep- 
grooved  streak  of  folly  which  ran  through  all  the  merchant's 
dealings  whether  public  or  domestic,  and  of  which  Mony- 
penny  was  so  keenly  aware,  that  even  now  on  his  way  to  see 
him,  full  of  gratitude  and  anticipation,  he  caught  himself  mut- 
tering: "Becket  is  a  fool." 

When  he  saw  Mrs.  Becket  he  knew  that  mixed  with  his 
eagerness  there  had  been  qualms.  He  had  been  unconsciously 
wondering  how  much  of  the  past  she  would  bring  back.  He 
had  to  wait  for  her  a  few  minutes  in  the  Beckets'  sitting-room. 
It  was  a  large,  handsome  room,  gay  after  the  manner  of  the 
times  with  plush  and  gilding,  and  the  sea  sighed  through  the 
open  window.  That  open  window  was  its  only  token  of  dif- 
ference from  a  hundred  other  such  drawing-rooms  in  Marlin- 
gate. A  discreetly  opened  window  was  healthy  in  June,  and 
many  sashes  were  moderately  raised  along  the  Parade  or  in 
the  High  Street.  But  here  all  the  great  bow  gaped  and  rat- 
tled in  its  frame  as  the  sea-wind  swept  it,  stirring  about  the 
room,  shifting  pictures,  flapping  fire-screens  and  antimacas- 
sars. Monypenny  thought  it  right  to  close  the  window, 
and  was  struggling  with  the  stiff  sash-lines  when  a  sudden 
swelling  of  the  breeze  into  a  hurricane  proclaimed  the  open- 
ing of  the  door.  He  swung  round  uneasily  in  the  bow,  ex- 
pecting Morgan  to  blow  in  like  a  dead  leaf.  Instead  she 
sailed  in  like  a  stately  ship,  her  hoop  spread  wide,  her  hand, 
with  a  broad  velvet  ribbon  round  the  wrist,  stretched  out  to- 
wards him. 

Then  his  doubts  left  him.  He  need  never  have  feared  this 
woman,  polished  and  sleeked  by  marriage  and  experience.  He 
realised  smitingly  that  she  must  be  as  ashamed  as  he  was  of 


CLIMBING  STREETS  123 

that  episode  under  the  Gringer,  and  as  anxious  to  forget  it. 
She  had  not  learned  for  nothing  the  wisdom  of  towns,  and  he 
need  never  fear  that  she  would  try  to  bring  him  back  into  that 
terrible  place  which  his  soul  dreaded  between  the  woods  and 
the  sea. 

She  greeted  him  without  a  trace  of  embarrassment  or  re- 
collection, complimenting  him  on  the  ceremony  in  the  Town 
Park,  and  the  general  development  of  the  town  since  she  had 
seen  it  last.  He  asked  after  the  health  of  the  baby  which  had 
kept  her  at  home  that  morning,  and  she  told  him  that  it  was 
partly  for  the  child's  sake  that  she  had  come  to  Marlingate. 
The  little  girl  had  been  ailing  that  spring  and  needed  sea  air. 

"But  that's  only  one  reason  why  I  came.  I  wanted  to  see 
the  town  again  after  such  a  long  absence.  I  have  heard  won- 
ders of  Marlingate." 

She  laughed  suddenly,  and  when  she  laughed  the  old  Mor- 
gan seemed  to  come  back.  He  found  himself  laughing  too, 
and  had  a  queer  feeling  that  they  were  both  laughing  at  Mar- 
lingate. 

He  was  glad  when  Becket  came  in  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Leo 
Hurdicott.  Tea  was  brought  and  as  the  Hurdicotts  were  talk- 
ative, Monypenny  had  a  chance  of  silently  watching  Mrs. 
Becket.  In  the  Town  Park  his  senses  had  been  in  too  deep 
a  trance  for  him  to  examine  her,  but  now  he  saw  that  she  had 
altered  in  appearance  as  well  as  in  deportment — she  had  filled 
out  and  ripened,  her  movements  were  slower  and  more  digni- 
fied, she  actually  seemed  taller,  and  carried  her  elegant  robe 
with  an  air.  The  mood  he  had  caught  in  mere  baffling  snatches 
long  ago,  those  strange  gleams  of  polish  and  state  which  had 
perplexed  him,  now  formed  the  woman  herself,  her  poised  and 
stately  mould.  Yet  as  he  sat  and  watched  her  talking,  he 
sometimes  caught  glimpses  of  the  woman  that  was  gone,  the 
wood-faun  that  danced  in  her  eyes,  and  broke  her  polished 
charm  with  little  ripples  of  wildness.  It  seemed  as  if  since 
her  marriage  she  had  turned  her  nature  inside  out — the  va- 


124  TAMARISK  TOWN 

grant  mood  had  become  the  woman,  and  the  woman  he  had 
known  lived  only  in  her  laugh  and  her  long  veiled  eyes. 

Becket's  attitude  towards  her  was  probably  exactly  the 
same  as  that  he  had  borne  towards  his  Emma  of  pious  mem- 
ory. He  admired  her  openly,  almost  foolishly,  consulted  her, 
deferred  to  her,  and  was  in  his  turn  treated  with  amiability 
—there  was  no  other  word  to  express  her  attitude  of  active 
toleration.  Oddly  enough  it  would  seem  as  if  she  had  given 
him  a  polish — there  was  less  of  the  counting-house  about  him 
than  there  used  to  be. 

Monypenny  felt  very  happy.  His  life  was  broadening  and 
streaming — he  felt  it  spread  and  flow  like  a  river.  For  some 
strange  reason  that  episode  at  French  Landing,  which  had  al- 
ways stood  apart  from  everything  else  in  his  life,  inexplicable 
and  alien,  now  became  part  of  the  main  stream,  part  of  his 
ambition  for  Marlingate,  part  of  his  success,  part  of  his  May- 
oral greatness. 

§  10 

He  saw  a  good  deal  of  the  Beckets  during  the  next  week. 
They  were  present  at  all  the  various  gatherings,  whether  so- 
cial or  municipal.  Monypenny  became  used  to  Morgan's 
swimming  grace  beside  Becket's  solidity,  like  a  sapling  birch 
beside  a  shrub.  He  became  used  to  the  new  tones  in  her  voice 
and  the  new  graces  in  her  manner.  The  pleasure  these  gave 
him  was  not  grounded  in  a  mere  snobbish  relief  at  finding  her 
admired  and  sought  after  by  others  as  well  as  himself,  the 
praised  of  Lincolns,  the  pardoned  of  Hurdicotts.  It  was  rath- 
er a  half-triumphal  pleasure  in  finding  that  she  had  gone  the 
way  of  everything  else  in  his  town,  and  become  beautiful,  elect 
and  polished.  As  the  Wilderness  had  become  the  Town  Park, 
so  Morgan  Wells  had  become  Mrs.  Hugo  Becket,  and  Mony- 
penny exulted  in  her  clipped  and  trimmed  decorum,  in  her 
flowering,  wide-petaled  sweetness — and  it  was  now  part  of  his 
delight  that  he  could  never  forget  how  once  this  garden  rose  had 


CLIMBING  STREETS  125 

bloomed  wild  on  the  cliffs  and  pricked  his  heart  with  thorns. 

The  week  of  festival  culminated  in  a  Grand  Ball  at  the  As- 
sembly Room.  Balls  had  developed  since  the  opening  cere- 
mony five  years  ago.  The  room  was  packed  this  night,  and 
Monypenny  and  the  stewards  worked  hard  to  clear  the  mere 
gazers  and  saunterers  into  the  card-rooms,  so  that  the  floor 
could  be  kept  free  for  dancing.  The  decorations  were  more 
chastened  and  more  expensive — instead  of  flags  there  were 
flowers,  roses  and  camellias  with  that  drugged  element  in  their 
sweetness  which  the  hot-house  gives.  A  more  liberal  artistic 
experience  had  also  taught  the  Town  Committee  to  distrust 
the  decorative  qualities  of  the  borough  arms;  so  their  Constans 
Fidei  and  lions  regardant  did  not  appear  more  than  once  or 
twice  upon  the  walls.  The  Corporation  smelt  less  of  the  coun- 
ter, and  Monypenny's  elegance  was  no  longer  conspicuous  in 
a  wad  of  Lewnes-clad  Aldermen.  The  whole  thing  was  more 
polished,  more  easy,  more  accustomed,  and  to  Monypenny's 
eyes  it  glowed  with  all  the  dazzle  of  a  promise  fulfilled. 

He  opened  the  ball,  leading  out  the  Duchess  of  Lincoln, 
while  the  Duke  led  Mrs.  Becket.  Her  dress  of  sea-green  Lyons 
silk  swam  round  her  white  shoulders  and  her  shining,  silver 
feet.  A  wreath  of  myosotis  bound  her  elegant  dark  head, 
and  a  great  fan  of  curled,  creamy  feathers  swung  to  and  fro 
before  her  breast.  She  was  the  finished  and  perfect  work  of 
art  for  which  her  appearance  at  that  first  Assembly,  six  years 
ago,  had  been  a  trial  sketch.  He  watched  her  with  a  soft,  fur- 
tive pleasure.  She  satisfied  at  once  his  sense  of  beauty  and 
his  sense  of  fitness — the  underlying  outrage  was  no  more.  He 
looked  forward  to  the  time  when  he  was  to  claim  her  hand  for 
the  waltz. 

By  then  the  room  had  emptied  a  little,  for  the  waltz,  with 
its  hardy  encircling  of  the  waist,  was  still  not  favoured  for 
debutantes  and  young  ladies,  so  these  joined  the  chaperones 
along  the  walls,  while  the  more  emancipated  married  women 
took  the  floor. 


126  TAMARISK  TOWN 

The  band  struck  up  a  waltz  by  Offenbach,  and  the  lilting, 
tinkling  music  seemed  wonderfully  to  express  the  night  whose 
perfections  were  not  of  the  stars  and  the  earth,  but  of  the 
strung  lights  and  the  polished  floor.  Morgan  herself  seemed 
part  of  the  sweet  artificiality  of  it  all.  It  was  as  if  he  danced 
with  a  marionette,  to  the  tune  of  the  musical  box  in  her  breast. 
.  .  .  His  happiness  dared,  as  it  always  dared  when  the  wild 
things  it  dreaded  were  remote.  All  round  him  was  the  world 
he  loved — the  world  of  solidity  and  polish,  beauty  and  formal- 
ity. Swung  by  his  daring  he  broke  a  silence  he  had  cherished, 
and  asked  her — 

"Do  you  remember  how  we  danced  together  long  ago?" 

The  next  minute  he  felt  as  if  he  had  committed  an  indis- 
cretion, but  at  once  her  long,  dazzling  look  reassured  him. 

"Of  course  I  remember — what  an  ill-bred  little  minx  I  was 
in  those  days!"  and  her  laugh  broke  up  the  insincerities  of 
his  denial. 

They  laughed  together.  He  was  glad  now  that  he  had 
stirred  up  the  sleeping  beasts  of  memory — he  almost  wished 
she  would  speak  of  French  Landing.  But  she  did  not;  their 
talk  was  of  mere,  general  things  till  the  end  of  the  tune  from 
"La  Belle  Helene." 

When  he  had  made  his  formal,  courtly  bow,  and  had  left  her, 
he  felt  at  once  soothed  and  stirred.  His  heart  went  out  to 
the  woman  who  could  remember  with  gay  forgiveness  the 
crudities  and  humiliations  of  their  common  past.  He  was  full 
of  a  sweet,  unreasonable  content.  His  partners  found  him 
strangely  cordial,  his  Councillors  watched  him  half  bewildered 
at  his  new  warmth  and  serenity.  It  was  as  if  he  loved  all  who 
were  in  that  room,  young  and  old,  beautiful  and  ugly,  visitors, 
residents,  everyone.  The  music  swayed  and  sobbed  and 
laughed,  scents  fluttered  and  stole,  or  hung  heavy  in  the  thick, 
sweet  air,  lights  glowed,  and  colours  dipped  and  swung  togeth- 
er. Monypenny  no  longer  lived  remote  from  it  all.  He  was  no 
longer  merely  the  Mayor  of  Marlingate,  the  leader  and  gov- 


CLIMBING  STREETS  127 

ernor  and  builder  of  the  town;  he  had  stepped  down  from  his 
creating  aloofness,  and  was  part  of  the  warm,  living  thing  he 
had  made. 

§" 

At  three  o'clock  the  ball  was  over  and  the  dancers  had 
gone  home.  Monypenny  stayed  to  the  end,  polite,  attentive, 
opening  carriage  doors.  In  time  the  last  persisting  sound  of 
wheels  had  died  away.  He  went  back,  inspected  the  empty 
rooms,  locked  the  doors,  shook  off  a  lingering  Alderman,  and 
found  himself  alone. 

He  stood  on  the  steps  under  the  white  moon-dazzled  por- 
tico. The  street  was  a  void  of  moonlight  and  silence — it  slept 
and  its  sleep  was  full  of  dreams;  they  troubled  the  shadows 
that  lay  in  blots  and  slats  on  a  white  sheen,  they  haunted  the 
chinks  of  the  houses,  and  fluttered  under  the  stooping  gables. 
Somehow  he  felt  as  if  he  were  now  looking  on  the  High  Street 
for  the  first  time — all  his  earlier  sights  of  it,  crowded,  busy, 
coloured  and  noisy,  were  illusion,  the  mere  snatching  of  a 
mood;  now  for  the  first  time  he  saw  it  in  its  reality.  This 
empty  street,  streamed  over  with  moonlight  and  gulfed  with 
shadows,  this  severe  fantasy  in  black  and  silver,  was  the  real 
spirit  of  Marlingate,  the  surviving  spirit  which  should  be  when 
all  else  was  gone.  Society,  fashion,  prosperity  would  be  as 
the  strains  of  music  that  is  dead,  the  forgotten  violins  of  the 
ball,  and  every  night  the  moon  and  the  darkness  should  build 
the  High  Street  anew,  and  it  should  be  cherished  in  the  soft 
night,  unknown  to  all  save  perhaps  some  lonely  privileged 
watcher  like  himself. 

A  shudder  passed  over  him,  for  he  learned  for  the  first  time 
that  his  town  was  built  of  dreams  and  shadows,  cobwebs  of 
desire,  and  little  rustling  winds  of  regret.  ...  A  low  moan 
broke  into  the  night,  swelling  into  a  roar,  ebbing  back  into  a 
sigh.  It  was  the  sea,  and  the  echo  of  it  went  up  all  the  silent 
street,  and  seemed  to  flow  round  Monypenny,  sucking  him  off 


128  TAMARISK  TOWN 

the  steps  into  the  pool  of  shadow  at  their  base,  then  gently 
drawing  him  to  the  angle  of  the  street,  where  he  could  see  the 
white  line  of  the  waves  and  the  hanging  sickle  of  the  moon. 

He  felt  he  could  not  go  home,  take  rest,  or  sleep.  Some- 
thing within  him  was  calling  him,  urging  him  to  receive  it,  to 
fulfil  it.  ...  He  walked  along  the  Marine  Parade,  his  foot- 
steps echoing  strangely  on  the  stones.  The  bandstand  looked 
haunted  and  terrible  in  its  emptiness — he  found  himself  hur- 
rying by — the  beach-chairs,  the  bathing  machines,  had  all 
somehow  added  to  themselves  a  sinister  quality.  Divorced 
from  their  functions  they  seemed  to  lapse  into  the  unreal — 
they  were  so  many  mocking  skeletons,  bones  and  frames  of 
the  colour  and  gaiety  that  clothed  them  in  the  day.  Heavens! 
Was  Marlingate  like  this  every  night?  He  looked  out  to  sea, 
and  saw  the  path  that  the  light  had  trodden  from  the  moon. 
The  low  soft  roar,  the  blurred  horizon,  the  phosphorescent 
break  of  the  waves  on  the  beach  were  a  comfort  to  him  in  the 
strangeness  of  his  disembodied  town.  His  little  refuge  between 
the  woods  and  the  sea  had  betrayed  him — his  bit  of  time  had 
crumbled — but  its  eternal  boundary  remained,  the  great  whole 
of  which  Marlingate  was  a  part,  and  to  which  its  ghost,  so  rest- 
less and  troubling  tonight,  belonged,  the  deep  from  which  it  was 
taken  and  to  which  it  would  return. 

He  came  to  the  Stade.  He  was  not  unhappy,  merely  un- 
certain and  bewildered.  Indeed,  during  his  walk,  he  had  be- 
come conscious  of  a  sure  ground  of  happiness  in  his  heart,  quite 
apart  from  his  attitude  towards  the  town.  The  Stade  was  not 
silent  and  ghostly  like  the  Marine  Parade — it  was  full  of 
voices  and  moving  lights.  The  fishing  smacks  were  putting  out 
to  sea.  A  cool  wind  blew  shorewards  round  the  juts  of  All 
Holland  Hill,  and  Monypenny  drew  his  cloak  more  tightly 
about  him.  A  lantern  moved  up  to  him,  and  he  saw  old  Gal- 
lop. 

"Hello,"  said  the  fisherman,  "I  thought  as  you  wur  danc- 
ing wud  the  quality." 


CLIMBING  STREETS  129 

"The  ball  is  over,"  said  Monypenny,  "and  I've  come  out 
for  a  breath  of  air.  Are  you  going  to  sea?" 

"Yes,  we've  got  the  tide  now.  My  boy's  taking  out  his  nets 
till  the  turn — would  you  like  a  sail,  Mayor?" 

Monypenny  hesitated.  He  felt  a  curious  longing  to  be  away 
out  on  that  great  stretch  of  darkness  with  its  one  white  path. 
He  had  had  little  to  do  with  Gallop  since  the  latter's  with- 
drawal from  the  Town  Council,  but  there  had  always  been  a 
certain  cordiality  between  them,  and  now  he  found  himself 
wanting  to  share  that  life  which  was  so  characteristic  of  Mar- 
lingate  and  yet  so  remote  from  its  present  activities,  which 
had  been  of  old  times,  and  perhaps  would  still  be  when  all  the 
rest  had  departed. 

"We'll  be  back  by  the  afternoon,"  continued  Gallop,  "and 
the  boys  have  got  coffee  and  eggs  on  board. 

"Thanks,"  said  Monypenny — "I  should  like  to  go." 

§12 

The  Lizzie  Hope  had  been  built  at  Marlingate,  in  one  of 
the  smack-building  sheds  which  the  visitors  knew  nothing 
about,  and  few  even  of  the  residents  had  heard  of.  She  was 
black  and  tub-like,  her  round  sides  pocked  with  tar-bubbles, 
her  snub  bows  decorated  with  the  head  and  bust  of  Lizzie 
Hope,  who  had  become  weather-beaten  to  the  point  of  shape- 
lessness  in  her  tussles  with  the  waves.  Aboard,  a  tiny  cabin 
glowed  red  with  the  light  of  a  brazier;  there  was  a  smell  of  tar, 
of  ooze,  of  fish;  there  was  the  strong  salt  bite  of  the  sea- wind, 
humming  across  the  bay,  and  ruffling  against  the  cliffs  of  All 
Holland  Hill. 

Monypenny  climbed  up  the  rope-ladder  hanging  from  her 
deck,  and  settled  himself  under  the  bulwark.  It  was  a  new  ex- 
perience, and  unexpectedly  gratifying  for  him  to  realise  that  he 
was  best  out  of  the  way,  to  secrete  himself  and  lie  low,  know- 
ing that  no  one  wanted  his  commands  or  supervision.  He  lay 


130  TAMARISK  TOWN 

listening  to  the  scrape  of  the  men's  sea-boots,  to  their  shouts, 
muffled  in  the  soft  thick  dark,  to  all  the  rumblings,  creakings 
and  cursings  that  accompanied  the  Lizzie  Hope's  putting  out 
to  sea.  Nobody  took  any  notice  of  him  till  they  were  out  be- 
yond the  shallows,  rocking  softly  on  the  deep  waters  off  the 
Gringer.  Then  Gallop's  boy  offered  him  a  cup  of  coffee  and 
a  grilled  herring,  which  tasted  oddly  delicate  in  that  atmos- 
phere of  tar  and  salt  and  windy  freshness. 

He  found  it  hard  to  realise  that  an  hour  ago  he  had  been 
at  the  ball,  breathing  the  sickly-sweet  warmth  of  flowers  and 
women's  scents,  with  the  perfumes  of  wine  and  macassar  oil. 
It  all  seemed  unreal  to  him  now,  like  a  dream.  .  .  .  He  had  to 
rub  the  tight  soft  fabric  of  his  ballroom  clothes  to  convince 
himself  that  the  thing  had  ever  happened.  Even  the  ghostly 
tinkle  of  the  music  in  his  brain  was  dead.  He  heard  only  the 
throb  and  flutter  of  the  wind  over  the  waves,  and  the  creak- 
ing of  the  Lizzie  Hope. 

The  nets  were  down,  and  the  smack's  red  light  was  now  one 
of  a  dozen  bobbing  in  the  darkness  off  Rock-a-Nore — he  had 
often  watched  them  from  his  room  in  Gun  Garden  House.  In 
the  distance  he  could  see  the  lights  of  Marlingate  streets,  soft 
orange  stars  in  the  black  mass  of  the  town.  The  houses  were 
dark — he  wondered  if  anyone  was  watching  the  fisher- 
lights.  .  .  . 

The  men  spoke  to  him  very  little — a  gruff  word  now  and 
then.  He  knew  he  was  outside  their  business,  and  counted  not 
at  all,  though  he  was  Mayor  of  Marlingate.  Old  Gallop  him- 
self had  not  sailed — there  was  young  Gallop,  a  man  addressed 
as  Bunker,  and  a  boy.  They  watched  the  nets,  smoked  and 
chewed  foul  tobacco,  spoke  in  low  grunts  and  mutters,  and 
brewed  innumerable  cups  of  coffee. 

The  sky  was  growing  paler,  and  at  the  approach  of  dawn 
the  mists  which  had  covered  it  shredded,  and  Monypenny  saw 
one  or  two  huge  dawn-stars,  hanging  low,  like  lamps.  Hitherto 
he  had  thought  little  about  the  stars — they  had  been  too  re- 


CLIMBING  STREETS  131 

mote  from  Marlingate's  activities  for  him  to  think  of  them 
much — but  now  he  found  himself  strangely  thrilled  by  those 
solemn  lights  a  hundred  years  away,  the  lights  by  which  the  lit- 
tle boat  trimmed  and  shaped  her  course,  in  cheerful  trust  of 
their  eternity.  A  great  world  seemed  to  be  opening  up  all  round 
him,  a  world  he  had  hitherto  scarcely  realised  save  in  uneasy 
glimpses,  now  revealing  itself  solemn,  immense,  everlasting,  a 
globe  of  fire  and  crystal  at  the  bottom  of  which  Marlingate 
lay  like  a  speck  of  dust.  .  .  . 

"Hi!—  kip  clear  of  the  net!" 

He  drew  aside,  while  Gallop,  Bunker,  and  the  boy  hauled  the 
net  over  the  bulwark.  The  Lizzie  Hope  reeled,  and  seemed  to 
stoop  against  the  water,  then  suddenly  righted  herself  as  a 
shower  of  iridescence  poured  over  her  gunwale  and  flooded 
her  deck.  In  the  quickening  light  it  was  as  if  a  rainbow  had 
melted  into  froth  and  lay  there  leaping  and  bubbling  in  the 
nets.  Monypenny  sat  close  to  the  bulwark  while  the  great  col- 
oured fish  jumped  and  shimmered  round  him — they  streamed 
over  the  deck,  flapped,  leaped,  flashed  in  the  sudden  kindling  of 
the  sky.  Above  was  a  fiery  opalescence  spreading  and  flushing 
among  the  clouds;  below  was,  as  it  were,  a  distilled  drop  of 
that  gleaming  mackerel-sky,  all  shining  greens  and  pinks  and 
blues,  with  opaque  glaucous  white. 

Gradually  the  commotion  in  the  smack  subsided,  while  the 
clouds  scattered  from  the  zenith,  leaving  the  sky  a  dull  blue 
arch,  gaping  for  the  sun.  Then  over  All  Holland  Hill  came  a 
sudden  fan  of  red,  and  a  hot  copper  ball  which  seemed  to  hang 
for  a  while  motionless  above  the  cliffs,  then  to  rise  and  cool  in 
the  tent  of  the  meridian.  The  mackerel  in  the  Lizzie  Hope 
danced  and  flashed  no  more,  but  lay  a  huge  greeny-white  heap, 
from  which  came  a  continuous  dripping  sound. 

Monypenny  watched  the  men  lower  the  nets  again,  then  go 
into  the  cabin  to  make  more  coffee.  He  looked  out  north  of 
west,  and  saw  that  Marlingate  was  waking  between  the  hills. 
He  felt  quite  happy  and  serene.  The  motion  of  the  Lizzie 


132  TAMARISK  TOWN 

Hope,  rocking  on  the  thick  green  swell  of  the  Deep  Channels, 
the  reek  of  salt  and  fish  and  tar,  the  men's  rough  detached  at- 
titude towards  him,  all  gave  him  an  immediate  sense  of  free- 
dom and  security.  In  the  distance  lay  Marlingate  and  the 
hills,  and  it  was  astonishing  how  far  away  it  seemed,  and  how 
far  away  he  was  content  to  let  it  be.  His  seething  preoccupa- 
tion was  gone.  He  watched  its  many-coloured  brightness  as 
a  man  might  watch  a  bubble,  and  as  he  watched  more  and 
more  of  a  bubble  it  became  to  him — a  glowing  iridescent 
dream,  unreal,  transient,  mere  air  and  water,  bright  with  mock 
colours  which  were  only  the  reflections  of  the  eternal  things 
around  it. 

§13 

It  was  when,  towards  afternoon,  the  boat  grounded,  that 
Marlingate  once  more  became  real.  Then  he  had  a  sudden 
smiting  consciousness  of  its  reality;  it  stood  out  as  a  solid  thing 
among  the  dreams  that  had  bewildered  him  all  night.  His 
landing  was  a  spiritual  as  well  as  an  actual  coming  to  shore. 
Once  more  his  foot  was  on  the  firm  ground,  and  he  rejoiced  to 
feel  the  warmth  and  corporeity  of  it  under  him.  A  man  can- 
not live  forever  on  the  shifting  green  of  the  waves;  he  must 
have  earth,  warm  solid  earth,  that  he  can  walk  on  and  trust 
in,  and  Marlingate  had  come  to  mean  the  earth  to  Mony- 
penny. 

It  was  the  dinner  hour,  and  most  people  were  indoors.  The 
streets  had  a  deserted  look,  but  they  were  steeped  in  sunshine, 
the  walls  and  pavements  mellow  in  a  soak  of  light.  Mony- 
penny  smelt  the  hot  dear  smell  of  lath  and  brick,  he  smelt  the 
peculiar  and  individual  smells  of  the  shops,  he  smelt  the 
baking  little  gardens  at  the  back  of  High  Street,  and  Marlin- 
gate's  own  essence  of  fish  and  salt,  a  tempered  concentration 
of  the  wild  windy  smells  of  the  sea. 

He  walked  drowsily  up  the  street  to  Gun  Garden  House. 
He  felt  suddenly  in  need  of  rest — he  had  not  slept  since  the 


CLIMBING  STREETS  133 

ball.  His  man  and  his  housekeeper  were  not  alarmed  at  his 
absence,  as  Gallop  had  let  the  town  in  general  know  that  the 
Mayor  had  gone  to  sea  in  the  Lizzie  Hope.  He  refused  the 
meal  that  was  waiting,  and  went  straight  upstairs  to  his  room. 
He  must  sleep,  at  all  costs  he  must  sleep. 

For  two  or  three  hours  he  lay  motionless  on  the  big  gloomy 
bed,  his  head  sunk  deep  in  the  pillow,  looking  strangely  young 
and  helpless  in  his  sleep.  Then  he  began  to  dream,  tossing 
and  struggling,  till  at  last  he  woke.  He  dreamed  he  was  walk- 
ing through  Marlingate,  up  and  down  the  streets,  past  the 
Town  Park  and  the  Town  Hall,  along  the  Marine  Parade, 
up  and  down  and  to  and  fro,  conscious  all  the  time  of  an  aching 
sense  of  futility  and  longing.  The  town  was  empty,  he  did  not 
meet  a  soul,  and  an  oppression  lay  on  it  as  on  a  city  of  the  dead. 
The  familiar  landmarks  filled  him  with  a  kind  of  horror — the 
Gothic  moulding  of  the  Town  Hall,  the  tiers  of  houses  on  the 
Coney  Banks,  the  white  streak  of  Mount  Idle,  the  gleaming 
procession-way  of  the  Marine  Parade,  though  all  unchanged, 
had  something  vaguely  terrible  about  them.  They  seemed  to 
mock  at  him,  to  shut  him  in.  He  felt  shut  up  in  Marlingate, 
he  could  not  breathe,  he  was  choking,  panting,  struggling  .  .  . 
oh,  thank  heaven!  waking  at  last.  .  .  . 

He  sat  up  on  the  bed,  wiping  the  sweat  off  his  face,  still 
shaking  in  the  horror  of  his  dream.  Then  the  chimera  passed; 
he  knew  he  was  awake,  secure  in  the  midst  of  his  solemn,  or- 
dered existence,  no  prisoner  in  Dead-Man's-Town,  but  Mayor 
of  Marlingate.  At  the  same  time,  the  experiences  of  the  night, 
the  reactions  on  landing,  the  fears  of  which  the  dream  had 
been  an  expression,  seemed  to  blend  and  consolidate.  He  sat, 
elbows  on  knees,  solidly  facing  the  problem  of  his  life. 

Everything  could  be  summed  up  in  a  name,  the  name  that 
had  been  with  him  the  whole  time,  yet  which  neither  his  lips 
nor  his  heart  had  dared  articulate — Morgan  le  Fay.  In  her 
he  had  paced  through  the  solemnities  of  the  past  week,  in  her 
he  had  danced  and  drunk  the  wine  of  youth  at  the  ball;  in  her 


134  TAMARISK  TOWN 

he  had  dreamed  out  at  sea,  off  Rock-a-Nore,  had  seen  the  sun 
rise,  and  Marlingate  gleam  like  a  bubble  which  shall  flash 
from  glory  into  nothingness;  in  her  he  had  trodden  the  solid 
earth,  imploring  it  to  save  him;  in  her  he  had  seen  his  town 
become  a  chimera,  a  horror,  a  starting  nightmare  from  which 
he  had  thanked  God  to  awake. 

All  his  easy  happiness  was  gone.  He  knew  now  that  he  could 
drift  no  longer;  he  must  think,  and  fight.  He  loved  Morgan 
Becket;  how  or  when  he  had  begun  to  love  her  he  could  not 
say — whether  his  love  had  been  born  in  the  lilt  of  Offenbach's 
music  at  the  ball,  in  the  joyful  discoveries  at  the  Marine  Ho- 
tel, or  in  that  sudden  sense  of  freedom  and  lightness  which  had 
come  to  him  in  the  midst  of  the  oppression  of  his  office  in  the 
Town  Park,  or  indeed  if  it  had  not  been  sown  like  a  seed  long 
ago  at  French  Landing,  to  lie  buried  till  this  new  sunshine 
called  it  into  growth  and  bloom.  All  he  knew  was  that  he  loved 
her,  and  if  it  had  been  folly  to  think  of  loving  her  five  years 
ago,  it  was  ten  times  folly  now.  Then  she  had  merely  been  un- 
suitable, now  she  was  catastrophic.  In  loving  her  he  risked 
the  supreme  honour  of  Marlingate,  his  own  greatness  and  dig- 
nity, the  happiness  of  the  town's  benefactor,  the  peace  and 
good  name  of  Morgan  herself.  If  a  few  years  ago  he  had  mar- 
ried Becket's  little  governess,  he  would  have  damaged  himself 
slightly,  he  would  have  lost  a  little  of  his  social  lustre,  which 
he  valued  because  it  shone  on  Marlingate;  but  in  time  the  blun- 
der would  have  been  lived  down,  and  Morgan  would  have 
adapted  herself  to  her  position,  just  as  she  had  so  surprisingly 
and  perfectly  adapted  herself  to  her  position  as  Becket's 
wife.  ...  A  groan  burst  from  him  at  the  thought.  What  a 
fool  he  had  been!  and  what  a  coward!  If  only  he  had  married 
her  then,  risked  her  unsuitability,  he  would  not  now  be  face  to 
face  with  her  as  the  embodiment  of  ruin.  Surely  he  might  have 
guessed  those  hidden  qualities  which  blossomed  in  her  now — 
they  might  have  flowered  for  him  instead  of  for  Becket.  .  .  . 
He  pictured  her  as  his  wife,  as  Mayoress  of  Marlingate,  superb 


CLIMBING  STREETS  135 

in  dignity  and  beauty,  yet  giving  him  in  private  that  wild  sweet- 
ness of  the  woods  which  should  blow  like  a  promise  through 
the  stuffy  streets  of  his  town. 

He  pulled  himself  up.  Regret  is  waste  of  emotion,  and  the 
psalmist  has  said  that  the  dead  giants  shall  not  rise  to  praise 
the  Lord.  He  had  only  the  present  and  the  future  to  deal  with, 
and  in  order  to  tackle  them  he  must  cut  away  the  past.  He  had 
made  a  mistake,  but  it  was  irreparable,  and  he  must  think  of 
it  no  more.  Perhaps  indeed  it  had  not  been  such  a  mistake  after 
all.  He  certainly  had  not  loved  Morgan  then  as  he  loved  her 
now,  and  if  he  had  married  her  in  doubt  and  dread  she  might 
have  remained  always  what  he  hated.  It  was  possible  that 
Becket's  stolid  sentimentality  had  achieved  a  work  which  could 
never  have  been  wrought  by  his  own  doubting  passion.  Any- 
how, there  was  no  use  thinking  of  it.  He  must  think  of  how 
he  could  tear  her  out  of  his  life  before  she  became  rooted.  He 
had  been  a  fool  to  let  her  cling,  to  drowse  in  his  ease  and  hap- 
piness till  his  life  became  a  thicket  of  impossibilities. 

After  all,  it  ought  not  to  be  so  very  hard  to  get  free.  She 
and  Becket  would  soon  leave  Marlingate,  and  his  folly  would 
go  with  them.  But  he  would  put  himself  beyond  reach  of  its 
return,  there  should  be  no  more  rising  of  the  five-years-dead. 
He  would  marry,  lay  sure  foundations,  build  himself  into  Mar- 
lingate till  he  became  part  of  its  structure,  immovable  and  un- 
shakable. 

He  had  been  a  fool  to  delay  marriage  for  so  long;  he  had 
trusted  too  much  to  the  reserves  of  his  nature,  laid  too  much 
stress  on  the  preoccupations  of  the  married  state,  ignoring  the 
fact  that  purely  domestic  conditions  have  little  reaction  on  a 
man's  career.  Marriage  would  not  tamper  with  his  ambition. 
On  the  contrary  it  would  support  it  socially,  and  lessen  the  risk 
of  such  catastrophes  as  that  which  faced  him  now.  He  would 
not  marry  for  love,  but  for  settlement,  comfort,  social  co-oper- 
ation, and  domestic  amiabilities.  Though  curiously  simple  and 
unspoiled  in  his  relations  with  women,  he  could  not  help  real- 


136  TAMARISK  TOWN 

ising  that  there  were  several  in  the  town  who  would  marry  him 
if  he  asked  them — he  would  have  to  think  carefully  and  choose 
discreetly. 

As  he  made  these  plans  he  was  conscious  of  a  vigorous  re- 
coil, both  mental  and  physical.    But  he  hardened  his  heart. 


§14 

The  whole  of  the  next  morning  was  taken  up  with  borough 
affairs,  and  he  had  little  time  to  think.  The  America  Ground's 
day  of  grace  was  nearly  over,  and  plans  for  the  Marine  Gar- 
dens and  Aquarium  were  before  the  Town  Commttee.  Mony- 
penny  had  insisted  that  the  gardens  should  be  designed  by 
Figg,  so  that  they  should  be  linked  with  the  rest  of  the  town 
in  one  artistic  conception.  Some  hours  were  spent  over  paths 
and  belvederes  and  aquarium  tanks.  Then  there  was  a  long  dis- 
cussion about  a  theatre  for  Marlingate.  Monypenny  had  al- 
ways been  a  play-goer,  and  on  his  rare  visits  to  town  had  never 
failed  to  see  Toole,  or  Paul  Bedford,  or  Fanny  Kemble.  But 
he  understood  that  some  of  the  visitors  objected  to  a  theatre 
on  moral  grounds,  and  thought  it  would  be  a  pity  to  alienate  a 
considerable  section  of  the  town's  most  genteel  patrons.  He 
suggested  a  Concert  Hall  in  the  way  of  compromise.  This  could 
be  run  as  a  municipal  concern,  which  would  vouch  for  its  re- 
spectability. Good  theatrical  companies  might  be  engaged 
from  time  to  time,  with  a  stock  or  a  classic  repertory,  though 
it  would  be  principally  used  for  first-class  concerts — Mony- 
penny spoke  of  Jenny  Lind  for  his  Hall  in  the  bold,  careless 
way  he  had  spoken  of  Sophia  of  Worcester  for  his  Park. 

He  came  home  for  luncheon,  which  he  ate,  as  usual,  in  digni- 
fined  solitude.  He  had  now  adopted  London  hours  for  his 
meals,  and  dined  late,  with  luncheon  at  one,  and  five-o'clock 
tea.  He  felt  tired  and  a  little  dreary,  and  for  the  first  time  he 
asked  himself  if  he  were  not  too  much  of  a  recluse.  Now,  if  he 


CLIMBING  STREETS  137 

had  come  home  from  Corporation  frets  to  cheerful  compan- 
ionship and  a  loving  voice  .  .  . 

For  just  a  moment  he  saw  her  sitting  opposite  him  at  the 
end  of  the  table,  a  black  velvet  band  round  the  whiteness  of 
her  wrist,  a  lace  cap  on  her  hair,  a  gentle  rustle  of  silks  as  she 
moved,  and  in  her  eyes  the  promise  of  endless  freedom  and  de- 
light. 

He  rose,  and  pushed  away  his  plate.  She  would  never  sit 
there,  and  he  must  not  let  her  come  even  in  dreams.  Dreams 
were  dangerous,  sapping  their  way  into  a  man's  heart,  and  lay- 
ing a  mine  there  to  blow  up  his  life  .  .  .  but  he  must  fill  that 
empty  place,  or  she  would  continue  to  come  to  it  unbidden. 
All  the  morning  his  brain  must  have  been  working  subcon- 
sciously at  its  new  problem,  for  directly  he  turned  to  it,  it 
furnished  him  with  the  name  of  Fanny  Vidler.  If  he  married 
he  ought  to  marry  locally,  and  Fanny  was  certainly  the  best 
match  in  the  town.  No  doubt  there  were  more  aristocratic 
brides  to  be  had  among  the  visitors,  but  more  than  ever  Mony- 
penny  was  consolidating  his  desire  to  build  himself  into  Mar- 
lingate.  Fanny  was  the  niece  of  one  of  his  most  prominent 
supporters  on  the  Town  Council;  she  owned  land  immediately 
touching  his  own,  good  land  which  could  be  built  over  and 
added  to  the  greatness  of  Marlingate.  She  was  besides  an  at- 
tractive girl,  well-educated,  and  not  ill-connected.  He  had  met 
her  once  or  twice  since  the  occasion  at  Vidler's  house,  and  his 
liking  for  her  had  increased  each  time.  Certainly  she  would 
make  him  a  good  wife,  support  his  ambition  yet  not  encroach 
upon  it.  He  would  go  to  see  her  this  afternoon. 


§  I5 

Old  Rumble  was  a  recognised  excursion  from  Marlingate. 
A  small  greenish  stream  suddenly  began  to  pelt  downhill  al- 
most at  the  rate  of  a  waterfall,  and  achieved  some  picturesque 
ripplings  and  windings  before  joining  the  Gut's  Mouth  just 


138  TAMARISK  TOWN 

above  the  Slough.  To  the  woods  of  Old  Rumble  shays,  ba- 
rouches, and  meek  hackneys  would  drive  out  on  sunny  after- 
noons, and  as  long  as  the  excursionists  did  not  stray  from  the 
roads  and  paths  or  otherwise  damage  Miss  Vidler's  property, 
they  were  always  welcome  in  the  deep  valley  farthest  from  the 
house. 

This  afternoon  there  was  a  special  concert  in  the  Town  Park, 
so  Monypenny  found  his  walk  unusually  private.  He  had 
formed  a  plan  to  walk  across  the  woods,  inspecting  the  two 
farms  on  the  property,  and  winding  up  with  a  call  on  Fanny, 
but  soon  after  he  left  the  road  he  found  his  resolution  losing 
some  of  its  trim  and  practical  conciseness.  Indeed,  it  began  to 
strike  him  as  a  little  ridiculous.  Not  so  easily  were  the  big 
eternal  things  outwitted.  He  was  away  from  the  town  now — • 
all  that  came  to  him  of  Marlingate  in  that  soft  sun-slotted 
shadow  was  the  faint  lilt  of  the  band  in  the  Town  Park.  The 
band  played  "Rienzi"  with  daring,  but  to  him  it  was  only  a 
distant  tinkling  sound  like  a  child's  musical-box. 

He  was  alarmed  at  his  own  reactions.  Why  should  he  swing 
to  and  fro  like  this,  like  a  pendulum,  like  a  trivial  charm  on  a 
woman's  bracelet?  What  right  had  fate  to  make  caper  the 
Mayor  of  Marlingate?  His  path  was  taking  him  close  to  the 
track  frequented  by  driving  excursionists,  and  the  distant  purr 
of  wheels  made  him  draw  back  into  the  thickets.  He  threw 
himself  down  on  a  pile  of  last  year's  leaves,  crackling  grimly 
under  the  spurge.  He  wanted  to  think  before  he  went  fur- 
ther, and  yet  he  knew  that  to  think  was  the  last  thing  he 
could  do.  He  was  in  torment.  The  love  that  had  brought 
him  at  first  a  drowsy  sense  of  peace  and  well-being  was  now  a 
remorseless  laceration.  He  fumed  at  his  helplessness  to  con- 
trol the  mental  powers  which  had  once  been  his  glory.  He 
surrendered  illy  to  his  own  disintegration.  Surely,  he  thought, 
only  fools  and  sensualists  could  welcome  love — to  the  think- 
ing man,  the  mental  ruler,  the  philosopher,  it  must,  with  its 
pickaxe  in  his  brain,  be  always  the  greatest  of  catastrophes. 


CLIMBING  STREETS  139 

The  approach  of  the  distant  carriage  made  him  raise  him- 
self, afraid  lest  he  should  be  seen  in  his  collapse.  He  stood  up, 
then  suddenly  shrank  back  into  the  cover  of  the  hazel,  for  in 
the  carriage,  driving  with  Lady  Cockstreet,  glowing  like  a  poppy 
under  the  scarlet  shade  of  her  parasol,  was  Morgan  Becket. 
He  wondered  if  she  had  seen  him — he  was  only  ten  yards  or  so 
from  the  driving  track,  and  a  ruffle  of  wind  was  treacherously 
tossing  the  hazels.  He  could  hear  her  voice  unshaken  in  its 
conversation  with  the  Dowager.  Perhaps  she  had  not  noticed 
him.  Or  perhaps  if  she  had,  she  thought  nothing  of  it — after 
all,  had  he  any  ground  whatever  for  believing  that  she  felt  for 
him  as  he  felt  for  her?  It  was  queer,  but  somehow  he  had 
taken  it  for  granted;  without  a  shred  of  evidence  he  had  been 
convinced  that  she  loved  him  and  that  the  consummation  or 
renunciation  of  their  love  rested  with  himself.  Now  he  saw 
how  utterly  baseless  was  such  an  idea.  She  had  never  by  look 
or  word  given  him  reason  to  think  that  she  remembered  or 
cared.  The  realisation  made  him  almost  faint  with  pain;  he 
saw  now  how  piteously  he  wanted  her,  how  utterly  he  was  de- 
pendent on  her  return  of  his  passion. 

In  his  agony  he  had  thrown  himself  down  again,  and  lay 
motionless  till  an  approach  of  wheels  from  the  opposite  di- 
rection made  him  fear  that  the  carriage  was  coming  back. 
Probably  it  had  driven  only  to  the  crest  of  the  woods  above 
the  stream,  avoiding  the  steep  hill  down  to  the  water.  He 
slipped  back  a  yard  or  two  further  in  the  bushes,  but  he  could 
not  resist  glancing  through  them;  perhaps  this  would  be  his 
last  sight  of  her,  she  would  probably  be  gone  in  a  day  or  two. 
He  looked,  but  drew  back  disappointed — this  was  not  the  same 
carriage;  yes,  it  was  the  same  carriage,  but  Lady  Cockstreet 
sat  in  it  alone.  Morgan  and  the  poppy  parasol  had  disap- 
peared; perhaps  she  had  decided  to  walk  down  to  the  stream, 
perhaps  she  had  gone  to  call  on  Fanny  Vidler. 

Monypenny  stood  up.  He  would  go  back  to  the  town,  to 
that  concert  in  the  Town  Park,  which  was  now  sending  to- 


i4o  TAMARISK  TOWN 

wards  him  the  echoes  of  a  waltz  made  plaintive  by  distance. 
The  Mayor  must  go  back  to  bricks  and  mortar,  to  his  aldermen 
and  mace-bearers,  his  robes  and  cocked-hat.  He  must  run  from 
the  wild  woods  where  wandered  Morgan  le  Fay  seeking  him 
with  enchantments  and  spells.  Suddenly  panic-stricken  he 
turned  to  go,  then  realised  with  a  gush  of  infinite  relief  that  it 
was  too  late.  She  stood  before  him. 

The  leaves  rushed  in  a  moving  pattern  over  her  gown,  and 
the  scarlet  brightness  of  her  parasol  put  an  unusual  flush  into 
her  cheeks.  As  she  stood  there  between  him  and  Marlingate 
she  was  less  a  woman  than  a  flutter  of  mingling  colours  and 
lights,  the  concentrated  essence  of  the  sunshine  that  moved  in 
the  woods  and  filtered  in  scattered  brightness  through  the  trees. 
She  stood  in  an  open  space,  a  little  below  him.  He  had  not 
seen  her  come  there;  it  was  as  if  the  sunshine  had  suddenly 
created  her. 

"Well,"  she  said  gaily,  "I  saw  you  from  the  carriage,  and 
thought  I  should  like  to  talk  to  you;  so  I  let  Lady  Cockstreet 
drive  down  alone." 

It  was  perfectly  natural.    He  was  a  fool  to  feel  so  afraid. 

"I  felt  I  wanted  to  ramble  in  the  woods — after  a  stuffy 
morning  at  the  Town  Hall." 

The  words  came  almost  foolishly  as  he  drew  near  and  stood 
with  her  in  that  little  open  space  among  the  hazels.  Far  away 
the  waltz  had  finished,  and  there  was  silence  save  for  the  rus- 
tle of  the  underwood. 

"You're  wise." 

It  was  still  quite  natural,  but  his  lips  were  dry  and  his 
tongue  was  hot  and  thick  in  his  mouth.  He  began  to  talk 
stumblingly,  feeling  that  words  could  save  him.  Words  could 
spin  a  web  between  him  and  Morgan  le  Fay,  and  perhaps  her 
magic  would  be  caught  in  it  before  it  could  reach  him.  So  he 
talked  on — about  the  Marine  Gardens  and  the  Aquarium  and 
the  Concert  Hall — snatching  at  Jenny  Lind  and  modern  mu- 
sic. He  scarcely  noticed  her  comments  and  replies,  for  all  the 


CLIMBING  STREETS  141 

time  he  was  watching  her  eyes  working  at  his  web,  melting 
and  tearing  it.  The  faster  he  wove  the  faster  her  long,  slant- 
ing eyes  seemed  to  eat  up  with  their  spells  his  handiwork  of 
desperation. 

She  stood  almost  listlessly,  her  parasol  across  her  shoulder,  a 
Windsor  hat  dipping  over  her  brow  and  making  her  eyes  gleam 
more  brightly  under  its  shadow,  like  water  under  the  shade  of  a 
tree.  The  Mayor  wove  faster  and  faster,  and  while  he  wove 
her  long  eyes  tore  and  slit  and  shrivelled  the  web — till  sudden- 
ly he  collapsed,  with  the  utter  weakness  of  a  strong  man,  and 
held  out  trembling  hands  towards  her. 

"Morgan — have  pity  on  me." 

She  did  not  speak,  and  he  repeated: 

"Morgan.  .  .  ." 

Then  she  dropped  her  sunshade,  which  rolled  in  a  whirl  of 
scarlet  down  the  slope,  like  a  poppy  falling,  and  stretching 
out  her  hands  took  his  white,  struggle-worn  face  intd  their  cool 
palms,  drawing  it  down  to  her  silent  mouth. 

In  the  Town  Park  the  band  played  "II  Trovatore."  The  mu- 
sic eddied  up  into  the  woods,  questing  among  the  thickets, 
eager,  plaintive,  almost  reproachful.  For  in  those  woods  of 
Old  Rumble  the  man  who  had  made  Marlingate  had  forgotten 
it  altogether. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  BETRAYAL 


THEN  came  some  shining  days  of  peace.  Monypenny  was 
like  a  shipwrecked  man  flung  at  last  by  the  waves  on  the  shore 
of  a  tropical  island;  he  drowsed  there  in  the  warmth  of  the  un- 
known country,  resting  after  the  struggle,  at  once  too  calm  and 
too  bewildered  to  explore  his  new  surroundings,  living  only  in 
the  present  relief. 

So  this  was  the  coast  that  had  scared  him,  on  which  he  had 
been  driven  struggling  and  protesting,  invoking  his  gods  of 
bricks  and  mortar  and  borough  parchment.  ...  As  time  went 
on  he  was  able  to  investigate,  to  look  round  him,  and  every  step 
made  him  realise  more  joyfully  that  he  was  on  the  firm  ground. 
His  foot  was  on  a  rock  which  stood  firmer  than  Marlingate; 
that  vague  feeling  of  indefiniteness,  of  a  reach  beyond,  which 
had  always  qualified  his  relations  with  the  town,  had  now  de- 
parted, leaving  things  real.  The  sense  of  reality  which  per- 
vaded his  life  was  part  of  the  best  of  it;  yearnings  and  dreams 
were  gone,  and  instead  he  had  solid  possessions,  culminations, 
satisfactions.  It  was  all  as  different  from  the  old  state  as  earth 
from  air  or  water.  It  seemed  as  if  for  the  first  time  he  now 
walked  on  earth,  as  if  before  he  had  always  swum  or  drifted 
through  more  fluid  elements. 

The  next  thing  he  realised  was  that,  surprisingly,  he  stood 
closer  than  ever  to  Marlingate.  His  new  experience  had  not 
parted  him  from  his  town  —  on  the  contrary,  he  felt  all  the 
closer  linked  with  it;  for  now  it  kept  its  proper  place  in  his 

142 


THE  BETRAYAL  143 

life,  holding  the  foreground  without  usurping  the  horizon. 
Monypenny  saw  Marlingate  as  a  great  achievement  and  his 
own  possession,  he  saw  it  as  the  consummation  of  an  endeavour 
of  which  any  man  had  a  right  to  be  proud,  and  at  the  same 
time  it  no  longer  choked  up  his  life,  blocking  all  its  exits  to 
wider  things.  The  new  clearness  with  which  he  saw  it  made  it 
more  precious  and  more  intimate;  he  seemed  to  have  commun- 
ion with  the  humble  things  of  Marlingate,  to  be  one  with  its 
common  life — not  only  the  watcher  from  the  hillside,  but  the 
guest  at  the  hearth. 

Morgan  had  given  him  all  this.  It  was  part  of  the  dowry 
that  she  brought  her  lover — a  dowry  so  rich  that  he  had  not 
imagined  half  of  it.  Her  love  was  a  flood  of  experience;  in  its 
depths  seemed  to  lie  all  knowledge.  He  had  never  realised  till 
then  how  ignorant,  wavering,  and  lifeless  his  existence  had 
been  till  she  took  it  up  in  her  hands  and  breathed  on  it.  He 
had  lived  only  in  his  town — his  private  life  had  been  squeezed 
and  toneless — but  now  he  had  an  immense  life  of  his  own,  all 
the  more  wonderfully  his  because  she  both  gave  and  shared  it. 

This  new  growth  made  him  feel  very  boyish  and  fumbling 
sometimes.  He  saw  how  immeasurably  richer  in  everything  she 
was  than  he.  Life  had  moulded  her,  shaped  her,  adorned  her, 
and  yet  left  her  essentially  herself,  whereas  he  had  scarcely 
changed  at  all  during  his  adult  years,  and  as  a  boy  had  not 
been  very  different  from  what  he  was  now.  She  was  of  more 
malleable  stuff  than  he,  and  yet  not  malleable  from  weakness, 
but  rather  from  the  excess  of  her  vitality,  enthusiastically 
adapting  itself  to  every  change  and  varying  pressure  of  life, 
molten  silver  shaping  to  beauty.  He  no  longer  wondered  how 
she  could  have  changed  herself  from  Morgan  the  governess  to 
Morgan  the  great  lady,  for  he  saw  her  in  all  things  fierily  fluid; 
and  the  source  of  his  greatest  delight  and  wonder  was  the  way 
she  had  through  all  her  changes  remained  Morgan  le  Fay. 
Those  wood-notes  which  had  piped  bewilderingly  through  the 
tinkle  of  her  immature  years  still  fluted  in  the  minuet  of  her 


144  TAMARISK  TOWN 

ranged,  sedate  existence,  telling  of  woods  and  leafy  silences 
and  the  slopes  of  the  Gringer  golden  with  gorse  and  sun.  .  .  . 

Now  that  he  loved  her  it  was  these  wood-notes  that  he  lis- 
tened for  most  eagerly,  for  now  he  knew  he  might  obey  their 
piping.  The  Mayor  of  Marlingate  had  his  secret  place  in  the 
woods,  where  he  could  dance  and  tumble  on  the  brown  leaves 
without  shame,  and  forget  without  loss  or  guilt  the  red  town 
behind  the  tamarisks. 

The  summer  drifted  by  in  days  of  warmth  and  life.  Mar- 
lingate simmered  and  stewed  in  the  pan  of  the  hills,  and  the 
sea  was  smoked  with  purple  mists  of  heat.  At  the  back  of  the 
town  the  woods  wove  a  web  of  shadow  over  the  heads  of 
Monypenny  and  Morgan,  and  cool  airs  ran  through  their  tun- 
nels to  the  lovers'  cheeks,  so  that  the  Mayor  forgot  the  baking 
streets  of  his  town  and  the  hard  shadows  of  gables,  and  lay 
with  his  head  in  the  lap  of  Morgan  le  Fay,  and  watched  the 
running  shadows  of  the  leaves  fly  over  her  face,  making  it  mot- 
tled and  mysterious  like  a  fawn's. 

But  they  did  not  always  meet  in  the  woods;  that  tryst  was 
only  for  occasional  liberties,  queer  little  escapes.  They  met 
most  often  in  the  intricacies  of  the  town's  social  life,  the  pac- 
ings of  the  borough  quadrille  in  which  they  crossed  and  re- 
crossed,  turned,  and  set  to  partners  before  the  admiring  eyes 
of  all  Marlingate.  He  met  her  at  the  concert,  at  cards,  at  the 
ball — in  the  Town  Park,  among  arbours  of  clipped  yew,  in  the 
Marine  Gardens,  new  and  soil-smelling.  They  listened  to 
Jenny  Lind  together,  at  the  Library  they  discussed  "Our  Mu- 
tual Friend,"  turned  the  pages  of  "Household  Words,"  and 
watched  in  the  daily  paper  how  Sherman  marched  through 
Georgia.  He  never  chafed  at  the  publicity  of  their  encounters, 
for  the  public,  ceremonial  conditions  of  most  of  their  meetings 
gave  a  sweetness  of  contrast  to  their  few  wild  privacies.  Be- 
sides, he  liked  to  see  Marlingate  as  the  setting  of  the  jewel,  the 
calyx  of  the  rose;  he  liked  to  see  her  glory  shining  on  it,  giv- 
ing it  new  wonderful  powers  of  satisfaction,  making  each  func- 


THE  BETRAYAL  145 

tion,  each  assembly  glow  with  new  colours,  so  that  the  whole  of 
that  summer  season  was  like  a  familiar  landscape  seen  for  the 
first  time  in  sunshine. 

§2 

The  town  began  to  notice  the  change  in  Monypenny;  he  was 
melting.  Gradually  out  of  the  stiff  casing  of  his  municipal 
dignity  was  emerging  something  warm  and  simple  and  hu- 
man, a  delayed  boy,  come  as  it  were  just  before  the  feast  was 
over,  and  still  a  little  timid  and  awkward  at  his  late  arrival. 
People  noticed  the  change  and  liked  it.  They  put  it  down  to 
his  success;  they  said  that  Monypenny  was  obviously  a  man 
whom  success  did  not  spoil,  whom,  on  the  contrary,  it  im- 
proved in  mind  and  manners.  They  found  that  up  till  then 
he  had  lacked  suavity;  the  men  had  found  him  stand-offish,  the 
women  unresponsive.  Now  they  were,  both  men  and  women, 
continually  surprising  new  warmths  in  his  character,  little 
spurts  of  occasional  wildness  and  wit.  Instead  of  merely  direct- 
ing and  controlling  Marlingate  activities,  he  animated  them. 
He  no  longer  paced  alone  through  balls  and  conversaziones, 
remote  and  saturnine,  with  his  melancholy,  unawakened  eyes, 
and  heavy  chin.  He  stood  with  a  new  readiness  and  informal- 
ity of  tongue,  in  the  middle  of  some  clump  of  tall  hats  and 
Paris  bonnets — his  laugh  was  occasionally  heard. 

As  he  opened  his  heart,  so  also  he  opened  his  house.  Gun 
Garden  House  became  less  of  a  solemn  sanctuary,  within 
which  few  had  entered,  and  then  only  under  the  weight  of 
ceremonial  restrictions.  He  still  clung  to  his  privacy — he  did 
not  change  his  type,  merely  fulfilled  it;  but  he  entertained 
more  generally  and  more  frequently.  He  gave  gay  little  din- 
ners at  Gun  Garden  House — not  mere  rites  of  municipal  or  so- 
cial necessity. 

In  the  mahogany-smelling  glooms  of  his  dining-room  shone 
the  gold  and  silver  muslins  of  Hurdicotts  of  Graveley,  of  Pa- 
pillons  and  Fulleyloves  and  Beckets.  On  more  middle-class  oc- 


146  TAMARISK  TOWN 

casions  the  rich  old  wine  of  the  Gun  Garden  cellars  was  sol- 
emnly rolled  over  the  tongues  of  his  Aldermen — Pelham,  and 
Lewnes  and  Lusted,  invited  with  their  ladies.  Lewnes  now 
had  a  lady,  of  the  Lusted  tribe,  with  wide  eyes  and  shining 
slate-coloured  hair  and  generously  curved  frontage,  like  one  of 
her  father's  houses.  "Obviously  built  from  Lusted's  design — 
no  one  who  had  seen  the  houses  on  the  Coney  Banks  could 
doubt  his  paternity  for  a  moment" — so  Monypenny  remarked 
to  Pelham  in  an  unbending  moment,  and  the  saying  went  round 
the  Corporation  back  to  Lewnes,  who  took  no  offence,  for  when, 
he  asked,  had  anyone  ever  heard  the  Mayor  make  a  joke?  He 
was  proud  that  Mrs.  L.  should  be  the  subject  of  his  Worship's 
first  effort. 

Becket  and  his  wife  came  often  to  the  dinners  at  Gun  Garden 
House.  It  was  part  of  the  setting  in  which  she  glowed.  Her 
pale  smile  would  suddenly  gleam  at  Monypenny  like  moonlight 
out  of  the  dimness  of  the  room,  where  the  wax  candles  throbbed 
warm  and  civilised  among  the  shadows  of  sideboards  and  alder- 
men. He  lived  through  his  evening  in  the  happiness  of  the  one 
glance  she  might  be  able  to  throw  him  for  himself  alone. 

He  remembered  how  he  used  to  picture  her  there,  in  his 
heart-ache  and  loneliness,  sitting  with  the  warm  candle-gleam 
on  her  breast,  and  a  broad  black  velvet  wristlet  to  show  the 
whiteness  of  her  little  hand.  .  .  .  Well,  she  sat  there  now,  his 
own,  the  heart  and  satisfaction  of  his  dreams.  He  would  drag 
his  eyes  away  from  her,  in  case  he  should  worship  her  too  open- 
ly before  them  all. 

Their  love  was  quite  unsuspected,  no  suspicion  polluted  the 
freedom  and  dignity  of  their  intercourse  whether  in  public  or 
in  private.  It  was  the  fashion  in  the  town  to  admire  Mrs. 
Becket,  and  Monypenny,  its  head  and  governor,  might  lead  it 
in  this  as  in  other  matters.  Those  summer  mornings,  large  par- 
ties of  ladies  and  gentlemen  would  ride  out  on  Cuckoo  Hill, 
cantering  daintily  over  the  cushions  of  turf  and  thrift,  and 
sometimes  Monypenny  and  Morgan  would  sweep  more  daringly 


THE  BETRAYAL  147 

ahead,  and  then,  with  the  keen  wind  streaming  past  them  with 
its  thin  wail,  would  turn  their  bent  heads  and  look  adventur- 
ously into  each  other's  eyes.  Their  faces  would  be  all  aglow 
with  the  glory  and  fun  of  their  secret,  the  joke  of  their  con- 
cealment, the  excitement  of  hiding  such  a  love  as  theirs  from 
the  sedate,  municipal  eyes  of  the  borough  fathers,  or  the  more 
piercing,  less  decorous  glances  of  Marlingate  society.  A  look 
and  a  smile — that  was  all  they  had  time  for  before  the  rest  of 
the  calvacade  would  canter  up  round  them,  with  flying  veils 
and  flowing  habits  and  shining  boots.  But  it  was  enough  to 
make  an  adventure  of  that  formal  ride,  since  a  look  and  smile 
expressed  all  the  wonder  and  the  joyousness  of  their  love. 

§3 

At  the  end  of  the  Summer,  Morgan  and  her  husband  went 
back  to  London,  but  the  separation  was  not  so  terrible  as 
Monypenny  had  dreaded.  There  was  something  transient  and 
unreal  in  the  months  that  flowed  by  without  her,  and  at  the 
same  time  a  sense  of  their  inevitable  course  towards  reunion, 
as  of  a  river  flowing  to  the  sea,  while  a  perfume  seemed  to 
linger  in  the  town,  and  every  street-bend  and  promenade-seat 
was  a  shrine — since  here  he  had  met  her,  and  here  he  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her  swaying  gown,  and  there  she  had  sat 
under  the  scarlet  shade  of  her  parasol,  and  there  they  had 
leaned  together  over  the  rail  and  watched  the  sea  as  it  sought 
the  land  in  long  sighs  and  caresses.  .  .  . 

The  Assembly  Room  had  become  a  temple,  dedicated  to  the 
memory  of  sacred  rites  of  waltz  and  quadrille,  and  the  stone- 
smelling  aisles  of  St.  Nicholas  Church  had  a  new  beauty  of 
holiness,  since  from  his  big  empty  pew  at  the  back  he  had  so 
often  watched  her  bonnet  bend  and  bow  through  the  devotions 
of  a  dozen  sunny,  sleepy  Sundays. 

As  for  the  woods,  they  held  her  memory  so  closely  that  his 
thoughts  became  humble  and  faltering  when  they  strayed  into 


148  TAMARISK  TOWN 

them.  Buried  in  their  tawny  hearts  were  things  both  reverend 
and  wild,  secrets  that  they  would  never  give  up  to  the  town. 
He  no  longer  had  that  feeling  of  hostility  towards  the  woods, 
for  in  them,  as  it  were,  the  scrolls  and  deeds  of  his  love  were 
deposited.  When  the  long,  sighing  sweep  of  the  wind  rustled 
up  from  their  alleys,  and  flew  moaning  down  the  High  Street 
to  the  sea,  he  heard  no  threat  in  the  sound.  He  liked  to  think 
of  those  two  great  freedoms  outside  his  town,  sighing  and  strain- 
ing to  each  other  across  it,  linking  themselves  with  winds  that 
fluttered  and  sped,  ignoring  the  blot  of  crimson  dust  between. 
That  Autumn  he  moved  dreamily  through  the  packed  activ- 
ities of  Marlingate.  He  did  not  lose  his  practical  sense  in  mu- 
nicipal affairs,  but  in  the  gaps  of  borough  meetings  and  social 
functions,  and  in  his  solitary  evenings  at  Gun  Garden  House, 
he  found  a  new  solace  in  dreams  unconnected  with  his  town. 
He  read  a  great  deal  of  poetry,  too.  His  favourites,  Dickens 
and  Thackeray,  Lytton  and  Ainsworth,  were  put  aside  for  the 
scarce-read  Tennyson;  he  also  read  Mackay,  but  more  doubt- 
fully. Once  or  twice  he  found  the  sweet  rhythms  and  word- 
spells  of  the  "Idylls"  and  "In  Memoriam"  acting  on  his  brain 
and  spirit  with  a  strange  intoxication.  His  own  mind  groped 
for  words,  his  own  hand  fumbled  with  the  pen,  and  the  stored- 
up  sweetness  of  his  heart  found  a  queer,  half-sad  expression — 
it  was  strange,  he  thought,  that  when  he  tried  to  express  his 
love,  which  was  all  happiness  to  him,  he  should  find  it  come 
forth  in  the  grey  tones  of  sorrow,  sad  and  restless,  as  the 
shadow  of  a  tree. 

"A  lover  sighed  in  Tamarisk  Town, 

(Tamarisk  Town  by  the  Sussex  Sea) 
This  was  his  sigh  and  thus  did  he  cry — 
(And  Mayor  of  the  town  was  he). 

'Come  back  to  these  woodlands,  sweet  Morgan  le  Fay, 

For  the  chills  of  the  Autumn  are  here ; 
Come  back,  for  the  wind  ploughs  a  sorrowful  way 

Through  the  tatters  and  shreds  of  the  year. 


THE  BETRAYAL  149 

Come  back,  and  put  stars  in  the  evenings  that  lie 

Like  clouds  on  the  woods  and  the  sea, 
Put  warmth  in  the  sun  and  put  light  in  the  sky 

And  the  promise  of  Spring  into  me.' 

The  answer  ran  through  Tamarisk  Town 
(Tamarisk  Town  by  the  Sussex  Sea) 

When  the  lamps  were  lit  and  the  dusk  was  brown 
(And  the  Mayor  in  love  was  he). 

'Forget,  mortal  lover,  the  wood-fairy's  kiss, 

The  kiss  of  the  child  of  the  thorn. 
There  is  doom  for  her  love,  and  the  doom  it  is  this — 

That  never  with  man  human-born 
Must  she  mate,  for  the  price  of  her  mating  would  be 

That  she  lost  all  the  spells  of  the  wild, 
And  humble  and  mortal  and  human  as  he, 

No  more  be  the  wood-fairy's  child. 
So  forget  me,  my  lover,  whose  lips  I  adore, 

For  that  ransom  I  never  could  pay, 
And  the  streets  by  the  shore  shall  be  trodden  no  more 

By  the  footsteps  of  Morgan  le  Fay.' 

A  lover  sighed  in  Tamarisk  Town, 

(Tamarisk  Town  by  the  Sussex  Sea), 

A  lover  sighed  and  a  lover  died 
(And  another   Mayor  had  to  be)." 

Morgan  was  inclined  to  banter  this  new  mood:  "Why  so 
doleful,  Mayor  of  Marlingate?"  she  scoffed  tenderly.  "And 
why  so  determined  that  Lusted  shall  take  office  this  Novem- 
ber? He  will  not  be  nearly  so  ornamental  as  your  Worship." 
Yet  she  was  kind  to  his  stumbling  efforts,  with  a  loving,  arbi- 
trary criticism:  "I  am  glad  that  you  are  learning  to  write  some- 
thing a  little  more  inspired  than  the  minutes  of  Town  Com- 
mittee Meetings.  You  are  losing  some  of  that  extreme  air  of 
responsibility  which  I  remarked  at  first  in  you.  Oh,  Edward,  if 
only  our  love  could  show  you  the  world  which  is  not  built  of 
bricks  and  mortar,  and  is  not  divided  into  Wards,  and  assessed 
for  rates,  then,  whatever  the  end  of  it,  we  have  not  loved  for 
nothing." 

He  noticed  in  her  letters — not  very  frequent,  for  he  and  she 
must  be  discreet — always  a  little  trickle  of  contempt  for  Mar- 
lingate. Love  had  not  made  it  glamorous  to  her,  as  it  had  to 


150  TAMARISK  TOWN 

him.  He  saw  that  in  her  heart  he  stood  alone,  requiring  no 
setting  of  richness  and  dignity.  She  could  have  loved  him  if 
he  had  been  a  borough  sweeper,  whereas — could  he  have  loved 
her  if  she  were  still  the  little  governess?  He  shook  his  head — 
no,  he  could  not;  at  least,  not  as  he  loved  her  now.  She  had 
not  been  complete  in  those  days;  a  dazzling,  perfecting  part  of 
her  was  lacking,  or  rather  submerged  under  stuff  that  clogged 
and  irritated.  Yet  he  could  not  help  realising  that  what  he 
loved  best  in  her  now  was  what  he  had  loved  in  her  then,  the 
wild  spirit,  Morgan  le  Fay,  who  had  lived  in  little  Wells,  the 
governess,  as  surely  as  in  Mrs.  Arthur  Becket.  And  that  part 
of  her  which  he  loved  most  and  had  loved  longest,  was 
just  the  part,  the  only  part,  which  he  could  never  hope  to  hold 
and  call  his  own. 

§4 

At  Christmas  time  the  Beckets  returned  to  the  merchant's 
house  on  the  Coney  Banks,  just  vacated  by  the  Colonel  and 
his  genteel  daughters.  The  Coney  Banks  now  formed  a  pop- 
ular residential  district  of  Marlingate.  Here  lived  the  more 
solid,  old-fashioned  part  of  the  new  ratepayers.  Becket  Grove 
and  the  Rye  Lane  villas  were  looked  upon  by  the  Coney  Banks 
as  a  rather  fast  suburb,  the  abode  of  long  purses  and  short  ped- 
igrees. On  the  Coney  Banks,  besides  the  Beckets,  the  Leo 
Hurdicotts  and  the  Alaric  Papillons  had  their  sea-side  houses. 
Lady  Cockstreet  still  lived  in  Rye  Lane,  because  she  said  she 
liked  the  view  of  open  fields  at  the  back  of  her  villa,  and  the 
Fulleyloves  had  a  house  in  Becket  Grove;  also  the  old  aristoc- 
racy of  Marlingate,  the  Pelhams,  the  Breedses,  and  the  Was- 
tels,  still  clung  to  their  heavy-beamed,  brine-reeking  houses  in 
High  Street  or  Fish  Street  or  Zuriel  Place — but,  speaking  gen- 
erally, the  Coney  Banks  were  considered  the  best  part  of  Mar- 
lingate, the  most  select,  the  most  genteel. 

Lewnes  was  delighted  to  see  his  property  in  such  favour — his 
rents  and  reputation  going  up  together.  He  planned  to  build 


THE  BETRAYAL  151 

more  houses,  and  talked  the  matter  over  with  Lusted,  their 
heads  full  of  stucco  and  basements  and  area  railings.  Mony- 
penny  swooped  down  on  them  like  a  dominie  on  two  plot- 
ting schoolboys,  and  told  them  that  though  Lusted  might  be 
the  builder  the  archiect  must  be  Decimus  Figg. 

Lusted  and  Lewnes  looked  blank. 

"Figg!"  snorted  Lusted,  "why,  he's  done  the  whole  town. 
You  might  leave  a  bit  of  it,  Mayor,  to  chaps  that  were  in  the 
building  line  when  Figg  was  in  petticoats." 

"And  the  airs  he  gives  himself  now,"  said  Lewnes,  "and  the 
figure  he  charges.  One  ud  think  that  having  made  his  fortune 
out  of  us,  whom  nobody  had  heard  of  before  we  took  him  up, 
that  he'd  do  us  half  fees;  but  not  he!  not  my  lord!" 

"And  why  should  he?"  asked  Monypenny.  "He  charged 
what  his  designs  are  worth,  and  I,  for  one,  don't  feel  inclined 
to  pay  less  for  them." 

Lewnes  sniffed.  "It's  all  very  well,  Mayor,  but  this  time  it 
ain't  your  money." 

It  was  characteristic  that  neither  Lusted  nor  Lewnes  should 
tell  Monypenny  that  it  wasn't  his  Coney  Banks  and  that  he 
could  go  and  hang  himself. 

The  argument  continued  intermittently  for  some  days,  and  in 
the  end,  Monypenny  having  found  out  that  Figg's  charges  were 
in  fact  a  little  beyond  Lewnes's  purse,  offered  to  pay  the  archi- 
tect's fees  himself. 

"The  Mayor's  a  gentleman,"  said  Lewnes  to  Lusted;  "he's 
got  his  ideas,  and  he  don't  mind  paying  for  'em.  Now  I  don't 
hold  with  him  at  all — what  he  says  about  stucco  and  that  bal- 
cony notion  of  yours  just  shows  he's  got  no  taste,  to  my  mind 
— but  he's  done  a  lot  for  this  town,  and  let  him  have  it  as  he 
wants,  say  I,  since  he's  able  and  willing  to  pay  for  it." 

"And  where  do  I  come  in?"  grumbled  Lusted,  "I  that  was 
designing  houses  before  he  and  his  Figg  was  born — that  had 
built  the  Coney  Banks  before  he'd  built  a  toy-brick  church." 

"You're  the  builder  and  contractor — and  maybe"  in  a  com- 


152  TAMARISK  TOWN 

forting  whisper  "you'll  be  able  to  get  in  some  dodge  of  your 
own." 

"Yes — it'll  be  easy  to  work  in  that  pretty  little  fancy  o'  mine 
about  the  area  steps  in  a  house  that's,  as  you  might  say,  hov- 
ering on  the  ground,  instead  of  nestling  cosy  in  it.  They're  all 
area  houses  in  Berkeley  Square  in  London,  and  Grosvenor 
Square,  and  every  stylish  place.  It's  only  in  Marlingate  that 
we've  got  no  style,"  and  Lusted  spat  into  the  foundations. 

The  Beckets  came  down  with  a  train  of  servants  and  chil- 
dren. The  children  of  Emma  Hurdicott  were  now  schoolboys 
and  schoolgirls  home  for  the  holidays.  They  were  like  their 
father,  stolid  and  plump  young  people,  the  boys  agog  for 
Christmas  fare,  the  girls  whispering  together  about  Signor 
Frampini,  music  master  at  the  Sutton  Academy  where  they 
were  boarders.  Baby  Lindsay  came  down  in  her  nurse's  arms, 
with  hands  outstretched  towards  her  mother's  bright  shawl, 
and  Growings  of  desire  for  the  silken  cherries  in  her  mother's 
bonnet.  Even  at  a  year  old,  Lindsay  was  curiously  like  Mor- 
gan in  colouring  and  feature,  but  her  eyes  were  different,  more 
like  Becket's,  though  they  were  Morgan's  brown  instead  of 
Becket's  blue. 

Morgan  had  a  queer,  detached  attitude  towards  this  child. 
She  was  fond  of  the  little  creature,  but  she  seemed  to  lack  the 
maternal  solicitude,  the  detailed  preoccupation  of  most  moth- 
ers. She  would  play  with  little  Lindsay  as  if  she  was  a  pretty 
kitten,  fondle  her  like  a  kitten,  and  deck  her  like  a  kitten  with 
ribbons;  but  the  aching  yearning  care  of  a  mother  for  her 
child  seemed  to  have  struck  no  root  in  the  complexity  of  her 
nature.  She  did  not  fret  her  heart  over  the  delicate  baby's  ail- 
ments, though  she  told  people  it  was  for  the  child's  sake  that 
she  and  her  husband  had  returned  to  Marlingate.  She  did  not 
dodge  among  her  engagements  for  Lindsay's  bedtime,  or  dis- 
turb Becket's  late  sleep  by  having  her  brought  to  her  in  the 
morning. 


THE  BETRAYAL  153 

"Funny  little  monkey — it's  queer  to  think  she's  mine,"  she 
said  once  to  Monypenny. 

"She  could  be  nobody  else's — she's  like  you  in  every  way." 

"Not  in  every  way — in  some  ways  she's  more  like  Hugo,  and 
I've  a  feeling  that  she  will  grow  up  like  him  in  nature,  though 
in  appearance  she  will  always  take  after  me." 

"A  baffling  combination." 

"Yes,  she'll  puzzle  some  man." 

"Disappoint  him  perhaps — if  he  hopes  to  find  Morgan  le 
Fay." 

His  arm  slid  round  her  in  the  darkness.  They  were  sitting 
in  her  drawing-room  together,  and  a  stormy  dusk  was  gleam- 
ing dingily  in  the  big  gilt  mirrors  on  the  wall. 

"Do  I  puzzle  you,  Edward?" 

"Profoundly— but  I  like  it." 

"Do  you  really  know  very  much  about  me?" 

The  question  struck  home  with  a  strange  pang.  He  felt  that 
he  wanted  to  read  the  riddle  in  his  arms. 

"For  instance,"  she  continued  in  a  kind  of  dreamy  warmth — • 
"do  you  know  how  long  I've  loved  you?" 

Her  arm  in  its  silken  sleeve  was  round  his  neck,  and  as  she 
spoke  her  head  dropped  against  it,  so  that  her  wide  sweet  mouth 
lay  close  to  his  cheek. 

"No — don't  kiss  me,  Edward;  let  me  tell  you — I've  loved 
you  now  for  nearly  ten  years." 

"But  you've  been  back  only  one  year." 

"You  know  I  loved  you  before.  You  didn't  love  me  then, 
but  I  loved  you — from  the  first  moment." 

The  grip  of  her  arm  tightened  round  his  neck,  till  he  could 
feel  her  little  fist  doubled  under  his  chin. 

"I  loved  you  from  the  very  first  moment,  and  I  made  up  my 
mind  that  I  would  make  you  love  me." 

"And  Becket?"  he  threw  at  her,  fighting  her  because  he  was 
afraid. 

"Oh,  he  was  a  reaction.    I  was  so  wretched  after  that  day  we 


154  TAMARISK  TOWN 

parted  at  the  Slide — you  didn't  know — you  couldn't.  I  felt  I 
had  lost  my  chance,  and  I  wanted  to  kill  myself.  Then  Hugo 
came  and  was  kind  to  me — he's  always  been  kind  to  me — 
and  I  married  him  because  I  wanted  someone  kind,  to  help  me 
forget.  ..." 

It  was  the  first  time  they  had  discussed  her  marriage,  and 
Monypenny  found  his  words  choked  by  an  uneasy,  fumbling 
respect  ior  Becket.  So  he  had  been  kind  to  her — he  had 
helped  her  through  some  dreadful,  lonely  years  when  her  lover 
had  forsaken  her. 

"But  I  couldn't  forget,  and  after  a  time  I  felt  sorry  for  what 
I  had  done.  And  then  I  was  glad — oh,  so  glad!" 

She  turned  away  her  face  from  his  cheek,  and  hid  it  in  his 
shoulder. 

"What  do  you  mean? — why  glad?" 

"It  was  after  I  had  been  married  a  year,  and  I  suddenly  dis- 
covered that  I  was  different — I  was  learning  things  I'd  never 
known  before,  and  I  saw  that  people  thought  differently  of 
me  than  they  used  to  think — that  I  was  a  success.  Then  when 
I  saw  that  people  thought  differently,  I  felt  that  you  too  would 
think  differently,  that  at  least  I  had  it  in  my  power  to  make 
you  really  love  me.  And  I  vowed  that  I  would.  Yes — then! 
all  those  years  ago!  It  was  something  to  live  for — training 
and  moulding  myself  to  be  fit  for  you.  That  was  why  I  stopped 
away  from  Marlingate  so  long — I  would  not  go  back  till  I  had 
made  myself  what  I  wanted  to  be  for  your  sake.  Oh,  I  saw 
how  surprised  you  were  when  we  first  met — you  scarcely  recog- 
nised me.  Then  I  knew  that  I  had  succeeded,  and  that  night 
I  cried  for  joy." 

Monypenny  could  not  speak.  His  thoughts  were  a  conflict 
of  joy  and  pain,  pride  and  humiliation.  It  was  strange  that 
on  the  whole  the  rougher,  more  painful  feelings  predominated. 
This  revelation  by  Morgan  of  herself,  of  her  long  pursuit,  hu- 
miliated him.  Perhaps  she  would  have  been  wise  not  so  openly 
to  have  shown  her  hand.  He  had  always  looked  upon  himself 


THE  BETRAYAL  155 

and  her  as  victims  of  fate,  and  now  he  alone  was  the  victim, 
not  of  fate,  but  of  her.  She  had  pre-ordained  him  for  her- 
self and  had  won  by  the  strength  and  guile  that  a  woman 
knows.  And  mixed  with  his  humiliation  was  fear — of  the 
love  which  was  so  much  greater  even  than  he  had  thought, 
which  had  the  strength  not  of  twelve  but  of  a  hundred 
months.  He  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  such  a  love  could  never 
be  shut  up  in  Marlingate.  These  narrow,  twisting  streets  could 
not  contain  it;  its  nest  was  on  the  cliffs,  not  under  the 
eaves.  .  .  . 

He  gently  disengaged  himself  from  her  arm  and  went  over 
to  the  window,  looking  down  into  Marlingate  at  the  foot  of  the 
Coney  Banks.  It  lay  in  the  dusk  like  a  grey  pool,  with  lights 
like  the  reflections  of  stars.  He  had  a  sudden  horrible  con- 
sciousness that  it  was  not  there — it  had  vanished;  that  was 
only  a  pond  he  was  gazing  down  at,  fringed  with  dim,  dipping 
shapes  of  tamarisks.  His  eyes  desperately  fought  the  twilight 
for  familiar  landmarks,  and  at  last  dragged  out  the  street  of 
Mount  Idle  just  fading  out  of  the  western  light,  then,  as  they 
grew  more  accustomed  to  the  dimness,  he  saw  the  pallid  fagade 
of  the  Assembly  Room,  and  then  the  crook  of  Zuriel  Place  with 
Fish  Street,  yellow  in  the  gleam  of  some  new-kindled  lamp.  He 
heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  and  turned  from  the  window. 

§5 

Through  the  Winter  into  the  Spring,  past  the  budding  of  the 
trees  in  Old  Rumble  Woods  to  the  flowering  of  the  sea- 
purslane  under  Cuckoo  Hill,  Morgan  and  Monypenny  carried 
their  love,  now  beginning  to  wear  the  dear,  quiet  tints  of  cus- 
tom. The  intense  sunshine  of  their  happiness  had  faded  it  out 
of  some  early  crudeness  into  a  thing  rich  and  mellow.  The  ad- 
venture had  not  departed,  but  was  focussed  in  a  steady  vision. 
They  wore  their  happiness  with  less  self -consciousness,  but  no 
less  wonder. 


156  TAMARISK  TOWN 

For  a  year  they  had  kept  the  secret  of  their  love.  This  was 
due  largely  to  Monypenny's  discretion.  Morgan  alone  would 
have  been  more  reckless;  also  she  had  the  single  eye  for  the 
man's  possessions,  whereas  he  saw  both  the  woman  and  the 
town — both  part  of  the  same  whole,  it  is  true,  yet  each  sep- 
arately demanding  his  service.  On  this  account  he  and  Mor- 
gan had  their  first  dispute,  the  little  flutter  of  words  which  af- 
terwards fell  into  its  place,  giving  to  their  relations  a  queer  bite 
and  spice,  the  lack  of  which  they  had  not  felt  before.  Owing 
to  his  conduct  at  certain  public  dances,  and  to  one  or  two  pri- 
vate remarks  of  Vidler's,  Marlingate  had  chosen  to  couple 
Monypenny  and  Fanny  Vidler  in  its  gossip.  Fanny  was  now  a 
bright-eyed  bright-haired  woman  of  twenty-two,  and,  it  was  ru- 
moured, had  been  proposed  for  by  every  eligible  male  of  the  old 
Marlingate  aristocracy,  Pelhams  and  Breedses  and  Wastels, 
and  also  by  one  or  two  of  the  new  residents.  People  said  that 
she  was  waiting  for  the  Mayor,  and  Morgan  was  angry  because 
her  lover  did  not  seem  to  resent  this  talk  of  him;  on  the  con- 
trary found  a  perverse  pleasure  in  its  survival  of  contradiction. 

"Don't  you  see  that  it  makes  things  easier  for  us?"  he  said, 
"and  it  shows  no  one  has  any  idea  of  what  we  are  to  each 
other." 

"That's  what  you  always  think  of — whether  anyone  suspects 
us  or  not.  Oh,  Edward,  why  must  we  strut  about  like  actors 
before  this  gaping  town?  Sometimes  I  wish  that  we  could  be 
found  out,  and  then  we  should  have  to  go  away  together  and  be 
rid  of  Marlingate." 

Dim  echoes  of  the  Slide  came  up  in  his  reply. 

"Morgan — you  don't  know  what  this  town  means  to  me." 

"I  do  know — and  I  hate  it."    Thus  she  declared  war. 

But  this  first  battle  was  quickly  over — her  victory  as  he 
hid  his  face  from  his  town  in  her  long  hair — and  soon  after- 
wards their  love  had  one  of  its  deepest  experiences.  Becket 
was  in  London  for  a  week  of  board  meetings,  the  children,  ex- 
cept Baby  Lindsay,  were  at  school,  and  one  morning  Mrs. 


THE  BETRAYAL  157 

Becket  left  home  to  visit  some  Cheltenham  friends  who  were 
staying  at  Folkestone.  She  was  away  a  week,  and  shortly  be- 
fore she  came  back,  the  Mayor  went  off  to  see  a  farm  of  which 
he  was  the  mortgagee,  returning  a  day  or  two  after  Mrs.  Becket. 
So  it  happened  that  Morgan  and  Monypenny  had  three  days 
alone  together  at  Branzett  in  the  marsh,  away  beyond  Rye,  at 
the  back  of  Dungeness. 

Those  days  were  to  live  in  memories  of  June-baked  grass, 
of  slatting  dykes  clumped  with  may,  of  long  green  miles  of 
reeds  bowing  before  the  sea-wind,  of  the  munch  of  ring-straked 
cattle  among  buttercups,  and  the  shadows  of  clouds  moving  sol- 
emnly from  farm  to  farm.  The  marsh  was  one  wide  freedom 
and  solitude  for  lovers,  spread  gold  under  spread  blue.  Only 
here  and  there  in  thick  islands  of  elms  would  squat  a  lonely 
farm  or  a  lonely  chapel,  remnant  of  some  thriving  hamlet  of 
smugglers  and  owlers,  or  of  some  rich  foundation  of  the  monks 
of  Canterbury.  Brenzett  was  just  a  glorified  farmyard,  with 
the  inn  and  the  church  shouldering  each  other  beside  the  mid- 
den. At  dusk  there  was  a  sweet  smell  of  farmyard  mud,  of 
milk,  of  wood  fires,  and  in  the  early  morning  the  lowing  of 
cows  would  wake  Morgan  and  Monypenny  into  the  greyish 
whiteness  of  the  inn  chamber,  with  huge  dim  beams  over  them, 
and  curtains  waving  in  the  dawn-wind  that  blew  cold  over 
thirty  miles  of  marsh. 

It  was  a  strange,  beautiful  time,  detached  from  anything 
that  had  gone  before  it  in  Monypenny's  life.  He  was  alone 
with  Morgan,  away  from  Marlingate,  which  lay  forgotten  be- 
yond those  distant  cliffs  whose  outlines  he  could  dimly  see  in 
the  cleansed  gleam  of  early  morning.  For  two  days  he  scarce- 
ly gave  it  a  thought.  He  and  Morgan  would  rise  early,  and 
after  the  inn's  rough  breakfast,  wander  out  into  their  para- 
dise. North,  south,  east  and  west  it  spread  without  a  hint  of 
boundary,  save  for  the  rare  and  doubtful  vision  of  the  Marlin- 
gate cliffs  and  of  the  northward  ridge  whence  Ruckinge  and 
Warehorne  and  Court-at-Street  looked  down  on  the  flats.  They 


158  TAMARISK  TOWN 

roamed  beside  the  dykes,  where  Morgan  picked  armfuls  of  yel- 
low flags,  and  left  them;  they  asked  for  drinks  of  milk  at  name- 
less farms,  and  peered  through  the  cob-webbed  windows  of  for- 
saken marsh-chapels  into  a  green  and  rotting  dusk.  Morgan 
no  longer  wore  the  sailing  hoop  of  her  dignity,  but  an  old  brown 
dress  which  clung  round  her  knees  and  made  him  think  of  the 
brown  girl  who  long  ago  had  mocked  him  in  a  wood.  They  lay 
among  the  buttercups,  El  Dorado,  with  the  yellow  light  of  the 
shaking  flowers  upon  their  faces,  and  he  held  her  to  him  in  the 
thickets  of  the  grass. 

Then  at  last  twilight  would  fall,  the  dawdling,  languorous 
swale  of  June.  The  sky  would  burn  at  the  rims,  and  the  ze- 
nith be  pricked  with  stars.  The  scents  of  grass,  of  may,  of  pig- 
nut and  cow-parsley,  of  sluggish  water,  swam  in  the  air.  A  big 
red  moon  rose  out  beyond  Ansdore,  lifting  her  burning  horns 
above  the  fogs  that  lay  smoky  in  the  east;  and  through  the 
long  grass,  and  the  scent,  and  the  stillness,  and  the  curdle  of 
dusk  and  moonlight,  Monypenny  and  Morgan  would  walk  back 
to  Brenzett  and  the  dingy  Crown,  where  supper  was  spread  in 
the  glooming  gold  of  one  small  lamp. 

On  the  last  day,  they  strayed  further,  and  found  themselves 
in  the  town  of  Belgarswick,  at  the  end  of  Dym  Church  wall. 
Belgarswick  had  once  been  modestly  famed  as  a  resort  and 
bathing  place,  but  lately  it  had  crumbled,  and  now  decayed 
streets  of  dirty  windows  and  peeling  frontages  converged  on  a 
cracked  parade  silted  up  with  shingle.  An  empty  bandstand 
stood,  hollow  and  chipped  like  a  decayed  tooth,  on  a  wide 
sweep  of  cement,  where  iron  seats  accommodated  those  few 
who  wished  still  to  sun  themselves  in  the  rotted  town.  The 
sight  depressed  the  lovers — the  shops  either  empty  or  stuffed 
with  common  goods,  the  houses  full  of  ghosts,  the  forlorn  band- 
stand, the  Assembly  Room  now  used  as  a  Drill  hall  for  the 
Rifle  Volunteers.  Morgan  was  merely  disgusted,  and  anxious 
to  go  back  to  the  buttercups  and  the  watercourses,  but  Mony- 
penny found  himself  perversely  attracted  by  the  spectacle  of 


THE  BETRAYAL  159 

decay,  curious  as  to  its  causes — railways,  he  supposed,  with 
their  choosing  and  stranding.  Some  shoddy  policy  of  Mayor 
and  Corporation,  or  perhaps  just  a  freak  of  climate  or  of 
fate.  .  .  . 

"Morgan,"  he  said  suddenly,  "suppose  Marlingate  should 
ever  be  like  this?  .  .  .  ." 

"Perhaps  it  will,"  said  Morgan,  and  laughed. 

"Not  in  my  life  time" — and  back  into  his  heart  which  had 
forgotten  Marlingate  rushed  the  old  ambition  and  the  old  pride. 
This  corpse  of  a  watering-place  made  his  eyes  turn  with  love 
and  desire  to  the  far-away  hills  beyond  which  his  town  lived 
in  its  honour  and  triumph  and  dignity.  He  did  not  speak  much 
as  they  walked  back  to  the  marsh,  their  footsteps  ringing  on 
the  hot,  split  pavements,  their  few  words  mocked  back  to  them 
from  the  peeling  walls;  but  Morgan  knew  that  it  wa&  the 
Mayor  of  Marlingate  who  walked  beside  her. 

§6 

That  summer  Monypenny  planned  the  building  of  a  new 
street.  It  should  run  from  Becket  Grove  to  the  Park  gates, 
with  a  view  of  Cuckoo  Hill  and  the  southwest  sea.  He  talked 
it  over  with  Figg,  who  terraced  it.  Park  Terrace  should  stand 
at  the  head  of  a  shallow  flight  of  red  brick  steps,  shelving  down 
into  the  road;  the  houses  should  be  of  the  same  rustic  shape  as 
those  in  Becket  Grove,  and  unlike  those  of  black  and  barrelled 
frontage  which  he  had  designed  for  the  Coney  Banks.  There 
was  still  a  demand  for  good  houses  at  the  back  of  the  town,  es- 
pecially since  a  neat  yellow  omnibus  had  begun  to  ply  up  and 
down  the  High  Street.  Monypenny  had  hesitated  before  al- 
lowing the  Maidenhood  stables  to  bring  forth  such  a  metropol- 
itan enterprise,  but  he  had  seen  the  advantage  of  linking  his 
residential  background  more  closely  with  the  sea.  People  came 
— he  realised  with  a  little  pang  of  outrage — to  Marlingate  for 
the  sea,  and  lived  there  for  the  sea.  The  sea,  the  enemy,  was 


160  TAMARISK  TOWN 

the  town's  greatest  attraction.  Well,  he  must  make  it  acces- 
sible; he  must  for  Marlingate's  profit  acquiesce  in  the  attitude 
which  ignored  the  town's  own  beauty,  looking  beyond  it  to 
alien,  outside  things.  So  the  little  yellow  omnibus  linked  up 
the  woods  and  the  sea,  crowded  inside  with  petticoats  and 
pelisses  and  outside  with  pot  hats  and  pardessus. 

Becket,  partly  from  his  unflagging  local  patriotism,  partly 
from  financial  implication,  was  keenly  interested  in  the  ven- 
ture of  Park  Terrace.  In  its  earlier  stages  Monypenny  had 
not  realised  how  this  new  creation  would  bring  Morgan's  hus- 
band out  of  the  dim  background  where  he  lurked  behind  the 
lovers  and  set  him  down  square  and  solid  in  forefront  of  their 
lives.  For  over  a  year  he  had  ignored  Becket,  thrust  him  aside, 
forgetting  his  debt  to  him  and  his  dependence  on  him;  but 
now  he  saw  that  neither  he  nor  Marlingate  could  move  a  step 
forward  without  him.  Becket  was  the  financial  backer  of  Mar- 
lingate and  the  husband  of  Morgan  le  Fay;  he  was  the  com- 
monplace, grotesque  link  between  these  two  wonderful  things, 
the  two  great  loves  of  Monypenny's  life.  Morgan  and  Mar- 
lingate— Becket  supported  and  cherished  and  served  them 
both,  both  owed  him  the  greater  part  of  their  success  and  dig- 
nity; the  realisation  seemed  to  give  a  kind  of  cosmic  impor- 
tance to  the  merchant  as  he  inspected  the  site  of  the  new  build- 
ing with  Monypenny. 

It  was  a  windy  September  day,  with  rags  of  grey  cloud  fly- 
ing before  a  wind  that  had  the  chills  of  autumn  in  it.  The 
tamarisks  bowed  to  the  ruffled  surface  of  the  Slough,  and  away 
behind  Becket  Grove  the  oaks  and  beeches  and  ashes  tossed 
and  nodded  their  clumps.  There  was  a  shudder  of  wind  from 
Old  Rumble  and  a  sigh  from  behind  Cuckoo  Hill.  Monypenny 
shivered  in  the  elegant  light  clothes  of  Marlingate's  summer 
season,  and  Becket  rubbed  red  hands  together. 

It  was  the  first  time  for  many  years  that  they  had  been  en- 
gaged like  this  in  a  common  cause,  and  Monypenny  was  con- 
scious of  restraints  and  awkwardness.  Becket,  as  might  have 


THE  BETRAYAL  161 

been  expected,  talked  about  Morgan,  but  Monypenny  missed 
his  old  irritation  at  the  other's  uxorious  sentimentality.  The 
clearness  of  vision  which  love  brings  now  seemed  a  doubtful 
and  double-edged  gift,  for  today  it  enabled  him  to  look  through 
the  upper  crust  of  the  merchant's  folly  and  see  the  steadfast, 
loving  nature  it  concealed.  "He  was  kind  to  me — he's  always 
been  kind  to  me."  Morgan's  own  words  seemed  to  rise  up  with 
a  curious  kind  of  condemnation  as  he  walked  beside  the  man  he 
had  wronged. 

They  surveyed  the  patch  of  woodland  at  the  bottom  of 
Becket  Grove,  and  planned  its  clearing.  Becket  approved  of 
the  terrace  scheme. 

"He's  full  of  ideas,  that  young  Figg — at  least  you  get  the 
ideas  and  he  puts  a  polish  on  them.  Fancy  your  picking  him 
up  like  that  at  the  start,  when  no  one  else  could  see  any 
chances  in  him!  He's  on  the  way  to  being  a  great  man  now." 

"I  hope  he's  not  the  only  man  whose  name  will  be  made  by 
this  town." 

"Not  likely!  I  know  of  at  least  one  more — perhaps  an- 
other," and  he  blew  himself  out  a  little.  "Becket  Grove — that 
sounds  well,  and  it'll  always  be  there  to  make  people  remem- 
ber me." 

There  was  something  about  his  attitude  that  was  honest  and 
innocent  and  pathetic.  Monypenny  found  himself  touched  by 
it — was  it  that  his  heart  had  grown  softer  of  late,  or  had 
Becket  only  just  developed  these  endearing,  genuine  qualities 
of  simplicity?  It  seemed  strange  that  he  should  have  to  wrong 
the  merchant  before  he  should  be  able  to  recognise  him  as  a 
fellow  human  being.  He  did  not  like  these  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings— they  hurt.  Was  it  true  that  we  were  all  linked  up  by 
our  mutual  wrongs,  our  common  struggles,  or  forgive- 
nesses? ...  A  world  wider  than  Marlingate  seemed  to  open,  a 
grey  world  in  a  half  light,  where  men  sinned  sadly  and  unwill- 
ingly against  each  other  and  as  sadly  and  unwillingly  forgave, 
where  black  and  white  and  light  and  darkness  were  all  smudged 


162  TAMARISK  TOWN 

together  in  one  grey  blur  of  tears,  tears  of  sorrow,  tears  of  par- 
don. 

"I'm  deeply  attached  to  this  town,"  said  Becket,  standing 
with  his  legs  apart  and  staring  at  the  spot  where  they  had  just 
built  the  ghost  of  a  house.  "It's  done  a  lot  for  me.  In  the 
first  place  it  took  me  out  of  myself  and  helped  me  build  up  my 
life  again  after  poor  Emma's  death,  and  it's  made  a  bit  of  a 
name  for  me  too — I  like  to  feel  I'm  mixed  up  with  it.  And  now 
look  what  it's  done  for  my  wife  and  little  one.  The  baby  gets 
fatter  and  rosier  every  day,  and  Morgan — haven't  you  noticed 
how  much  better  she  looks?" 

"She  looks  very  well,"  said  Monypenny. 

"This  last  spell  of  seaside  air  has  worked  wonders  for  her. 
Last  summer,  before  we  came  down,  I  thought  she  was  getting 
a  bit  thin  and  off  colour — wore  herself  out  entertaining  people. 
It's  marvellous  what  a  success  she's  been — won  the  Hurdicotts 
round  and  everything.  But  I  think  it  took  a  lot  out  of  her, 
and  I'm  glad  she's  had  a  quiet  year." 

Monypenny  said  nothing.  He  stood  grating  in  the  earth 
with  his  malacca  cane.  Becket,  not  encouraged  to  proceed, 
turned  rather  reluctantly  to  the  matter  in  hand. 

"Yes — I  agree;  we  want  big  houses,  and  plenty  of  land  to 
each.  We  might  put  up  two  or  three  to  start  with,  and  see 
how  they  let." 

"There's  no  immediate  hurry." 

"Oh,  better  start  at  once. 

Monypenny  turned  slowly  away  towards  the  town.  His 
heart  was  heavy — he  realised  how  much  he  was  in  this  man's 
debt,  and  for  the  moment  could  not  stomach  the  thought  of 
adding  to  his  obligations.  He  would  have  liked  to  have  been 
able  to  pay  off  every  penny  he  owed  Becket,  and  here  he  was 
piling  up  the  burden.  He/  suddenly  decided  to  drop  Park  Ter- 
race for  a  time — and  yet  what  prospect  was  there  of  his  ever 
being  able  to  take  up  the  scheme  again  in  more  honourable 
circumstances?  Either  he  must  behave  in  a  way  that  was  an 


THE  BETRAYAL  163 

outrage  to  all  decent  feeling  or  he  must  abandon  a  venture 
which  was  part  of  the  success  of  Marlingate. 

The  wind  blew  into  Monypenny,  chilling  his  thoughts.  For 
the  first  time  since  that  June  of  a  year  ago  he  saw  incompat- 
ibility between  his  love  for  Morgan  and  his  plans  for  Mar- 
lingate. The  sunshine  was  gone  from  the  woods,  sucking  out 
all  the  green  and  amber  and  gold,  and  in  the  cold,  watery  light 
of  storm  Monypenny  seemed  to  see  again  the  old  strife — the 
strife  he  had  realised  in  the  bewilderment  of  those  days  be- 
tween Morgan's  renewed  challenge  and  his  surrender,  but  had 
afterwards  lost  sight  of  in  the  peace  wherein  they  had  pos- 
sessed each  other.  They  were  foes,  Morgan  and  his  town,  and 
a  truce  could  only  temporarily  break  their  warfare.  He  felt 
himself  caught  between  them,  and,  for  perhaps  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  a  helpless  thing,  a  man  who  is  caught  between  two 
buffers,  who  is  struggling  and  going  to  be  crushed.  .  .  . 

He  threw  off  the  oppressing  mood,  and  turned  to  Becket 
with  small  talk  of  the  town.  The  wind  was  blowing  behind 
them  down  into  Marlingate,  and  as  the  steely  light  of  the  storm 
moved  over  the  sky,  everything  seemed  to  take  on  a  strange, 
metallic  substance.  Between  hills  of  lead  Marlingate  lay  like 
a  blot  of  rust,  and  down  from  behind  it  iron  woods  crushed  to- 
wards a  gleaming,  brazen  sea. 


Monypenny  persuaded  Becket  to  shelve  Park  Terrace  for  a 
month  or  two.  This  was  made  easier  by  the  rising  of  the  Ma- 
rine Gardens  on  the  horizon.  The  workmen  had  been  quicker 
than  the  Council  had  expected,  and  the  question  of  a  grand 
Opening  Day  lay  before  the  Town  Committee  at  their  No- 
vember meeting.  Lewnes  and  Lusted  and  one  or  two  others 
wanted  to  postpone  the  ceremony  till  next  summer's  season, 
but  Monypenny,  backed  by  Pelham,  Breeds  and  Becket,  wished 
to  carry  through  the  business  at  once.  Monypenny  pleaded 


164  TAMARISK  TOWN 

for  the  Winter  Season — that  was,  if  anything,  the  more  import- 
ant of  the  two,  the  more  "select";  December,  January  and  Feb- 
ruary were  months  to  fill  and  fatten  even  beyond  June,  July 
and  August.  Winter  brought  the  best  people — they  stayed 
longer,  they  spent  more  money,  they  bunched  less  in  lodgings 
and  hotels,  indulging  in  "winter  residences"  at  the  back  of  the 
town  or  on  the  Coney  Banks. 

Monypenny  spoke  well.  Abrupt  and  plain  as  ever,  he 
seemed  to  have  acquired  lately  some  new  quality  of  emotion; 
his  appeal  was  vibrant  in  its  restraint,  and  swept  the  Town 
Committee,  who  abandoned  forthwith  all  cheaper  ideals.  Then 
Pelham  rose,  and  with  due  ornament  proposed  that  as  that 
month  would,  they  hoped,  see  Monypenny  take  office  for  the 
third  year,  he  should  himself  perform  the  opening  ceremony 
at  the  Aquarium.  The  proceedings  might  be  linked  up  with 
those  attending  his  election,  and  a  grand  municipal  festivity 
made  of  it.  The  Town  Council,  moved  by  a  sudden  enthusi- 
asm for  their  young  grave  Mayor,  greeted  Pelham's  proposal 
with  stampings  and  cheers.  Monypenny,  surprised  at  his  own 
popularity,  suddenly  became  charming.  With  a  new  warm 
colour  in  his  dusky  skin,  his  melancholy  eyes  full  of  brightness, 
his  fine  teeth  showing  in  unexpected  smiles,  he  accepted  almost 
boyishly  this  honour  of  his  Councillors  and  Aldermen.  He 
laughed,  he  stammered,  he  showed  for  the  first  time  signs  of 
3routhful  nervousness.  They  cheered  him  to  the  beams  of  the 
Town  Hall. 

He  came  out  still  smiling  to  himself,  and  was  pursued  with 
unofficial  congratulations  by  Lewnes  and  Vidler.  The  latter 
walked  with  Monypenny  as  far  as  the  Petty  Passage  Way. 

"I'm  unaccountable  glad  of  it,  Mayor.  Wot  do  we  want  to 
go  hauling  in  furriners  from  outside  to  do  our  jobs,  when  we've 
a  man  in  the  town  as  ull  do  'em  better?  I  reckon  Fanny  ull  be 
boco  pleased.  She  always  said  as  she'd  be  glad  if  you  wur  to 
take  office  another  year." 

"It's  very  good  of  her,  I'm  sure,"  said  Monypenny. 


THE  BETRAYAL  165 

"Her  cold's  better." 

"I  am  delighted  to  hear  it." 

"I  expect  she'll  be  at  the  Croquet  Club  Ball,  but  she  was 
unaccountable  sorry  to  miss  Lady  Cockstreet's  evening  party. 
Howsumdever,  I  tell  her  it'll  do  her  good  to  be  shut  off  a  few 
routies — such  a  heap  as  she's  had  of  'em  lately.  And  half  the 
men  in  the  town  after  her — she  finds  it  tiring." 

"I  expect  she  does." 

"Mrs.  V.  and  I  we  often  says  to  each  other  as  we  wish  Fan 
ud  settle  down,  but  again  we  say  it  won't  do  her  no  harm  to  be 
mighty  particular.  You  see  she  ain't  like  one  of  us — takes 
more  after  her  mother's  people.  Only  last  week  she  refused 
young  Never-mind-who  with  five  thousand  a  year.  I'd  half  a 
mind  to  tell  her  not  to  be  so  blame  particular.  She  says  she'll 
marry  where  her  heart  is,  but  I'm  hemmed  if  I  see  any  sense 
in  her  sitting  around  waiting  for  what  may  never  come." 

Monypenny  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  Vidler  was  talking 
at  him.  The  Alderman's  manner  was  perfectly  kind  and  friend- 
ly, but  the  Mayor  thought  he  detected  an  undertone  of  re- 
sentment. After  all  he  had  allowed  himself,  passively  though 
not  actively,  to  be  coupled  with  Fanny  in  local  gossip.  He  had 
made  no  real  efforts  at  contradiction,  and  it  was  quite  possi- 
ble that  Fanny's  own  conjectures  had  been  aroused  and  even 
that  her  feelings  had  been  touched.  He  felt  an  uneasy  sense 
of  shame  as  he  shook  hands  with  Vidler  at  the  opening  of  the 
Passage  Way.  He  liked  the  kindly  Alderman,  and  could  not 
bear  the  thought  of  doing  any  harm  to  him  or  his.  He  also 
liked  Fanny,  and  was  really  shocked  to  think  that  he  might 
have  caused  her  pain  and  uneasiness.  This  was  the  second  time 
that  his  love  for  Morgan  had  involved  him  in  treachery  and 
injury  towards  those  whom  he  respected.  As  he  climbed  the 
Coney  Banks  to  the  house  where  Morgan  was  waiting  for  him, 
he  asked  himself  bitterly  if  their  love  was  inseparable  from  de- 
ceit and  wrong.  For  two  people  in  their  public  position  to  love 
secretly  as  they  did  was  to  involve  themselves  in  all  kinds  of 


166  TAMARISK  TOWN 

outrage.  He  saw  the  evil  getting  closer,  the  mud  getting 
thicker  .  .  .  and  by  the  time  he  reached  her  house,  his  gay 
looks  had  quite  faded,  and  he  told  her  almost  half-heartedly 
of  the  afternoon's  doings. 

The  dusk  had  fallen ;  a  soft  grey  mist  was  banking  over  the 
sea,  rolling  up  to  the  bluff  of  All  Holland  Hill.  In  the  north 
and  west  the  sky  was  clear,  the  radiance  drifting  down  into 
the  woods  and  smudging  their  brown  and  orange  into  the 
clouds.  From  behind  Cuckoo  Hill  horns  and  shafts  of  light 
went  up  into  the  air,  so  that  on  the  opposite  slope  the  streak 
of  Mount  Idle  glowed  like  a  bar  of  porphyry.  There  was  a 
coldness  and  rasp  in  the  air,  a  gathering  of  mist  and  smoke  and 
dew  into  damp  curds,  yet  Monypenny  agreed  almost  eagerly 
to  Morgan's  suggestion  that  they  should  go  out  on  the  hill. 
She  flung  on  a  little  cherry-coloured  camail,  and  they  slipped 
down  the  narrow  tongue  of  garden  where  the  sunflowers  hung 
their  rain-sogged  stalks,  out  of  the  black  gate  on  to  the  slope 
of  Cuckoo  Hill,  where  it  was  all  still  and  dusk  and  damp  and 
rather  cold. 

Between  the  tall  narrow  blocks  of  the  Coney  Bank  houses 
they  could  see  the  well  of  the  town,  twinkling  with  soft  lights, 
while  more  lights  sprinkled  the  sea.  .  .  .  Morgan's  hand 
dragged  at  Monypenny's  arm,  and  he  looked  down  at  her.  Her 
face  glowed  wistfully  in  the  dying  light,  pointed  and  pale  be- 
tween the  flat  black  loops  of  her  hair.  The  dusk  had  drunk  all 
the  colour  out  of  her  cherry-tinted  cloak,  and  he  saw  only  the 
whiteness  of  her  neck  above  it,  stretched  to  his  caresses.  In  a 
convulsion  of  passion  and  pain  he  drew  her  to  him,  and  as  he 
kissed  her  lips  and  throat  it  was  as  if  he  drank  up  the  sadness 
of  the  dusk  and  that  strange  loneliness  of  Cuckoo  Hill,  which 
was  the  loneliness  of  the  edge  of  a  town,  more  dreary  than  the 
wilderness. 

They  stood  clasped  together  there  above  the  twinkling  lights 
of  Marlingate,  one  dim  shape  in  the  mist,  a  darkness  patched 
only  by  the  white  gleam  of  their  hands  and  faces.  Without 


THE  BETRAYAL  167 

words  and  almost  without  joy  they  stood  and  kissed;  while  the 
fire  in  the  sky  died  down  behind  them,  and  shadows  crept  up 
round  them  from  the  grass,  and  below  them  Marlingate  lay 
with  a  faint  tinkle  of  music  coming  from  its  streets. 

A  step  sucking  on  the  mud  made  the  blotted  shape  against 
the  wall  suddenly  dissolve  itself  into  two  creatures.  A  man's 
figure  loomed  up  suddenly  out  of  the  darkness,  nearly  ran  into 
them,  then  swung  to  the  side  with  a  muttered  "Beg  pardon." 
A  smell  of  tobacco  and  a  smell  of  fish  seemed  to  linger  after 
he  had  passed. 

"Did  you  see  who  that  was?"  asked  Monypenny  in  a  choked 
abrupt  voice. 

"No,  I  didn't." 

"It  was  Gallop." 

"Old  Gallop  of  the  Stade?" 

"Yes — there  was  just  enough  light  to  see  him  by.  I  won- 
der if  he  saw  us." 

"I  doubt  it." 

"Morgan — if  he  did — if  he  spoke " 

"It  would  be  a  good  job,"  said  Morgan. 

§n 
O 

Monypenny  dined  alone  and  drearily  at  Gun  Garden  House. 
After  dinner  he  went  into  his  study  where  a  fire  was  lighted 
and  threw  himself  into  an  armchair.  His  writing  desk  was 
littered  with  papers — thick  parchment-like  papers  embossed 
with  a  well-known  coat  of  arms.  On  the  occasional  table  by 
his  side  lay  a  fresh,  uncut  number  of  "Dr.  Marigold's  Pre- 
scriptions," but  neither  Marlingate's  business  nor  the  new 
Dickens  had  power  with  him  now.  He  was  in  a  terrible  state 
of  unrest.  He  lay  back  in  his  armchair  with  his  long  legs 
stretched  to  the  hearth;  the  fire  hummed  and  crackled,  and  the 
gas-jet  by  the  chimney-piece  whined  a  queer  little  song.  Then 
he  heard  the  wind  get  up  and  prowl,  shaking  doors  and  win- 


168  TAMARISK  TOWN 

dows,  rustling  the  trees  and  creepers,  rumbling  in  the  chim- 
ney. 

For  a  year  he  had  lived  in  peace — indeed  peace  was  too  neg- 
ative a  word  for  the  thrilling  quiet  of  mind  and  body  that  had 
been  his  ever  since  his  surrender  in  Old  Rumble  Wood.  Now 
he  saw  that  this  year  had  not  been,  as  he  had  thought  it,  the 
beginning  of  a  new  era,  but  an  interval  between  the  old  times 
and  the  new.  For  a  year  he  had  enjoyed  both  Morgan  and 
Marlingate,  but  now  he  saw  by  certain  disquieting  tokens  that 
he  must  make  his  choice  between  them. 

He  reviewed  these  tokens  in  his  mind.  Strange  to  say,  they 
started  with  the  three  days  at  Brenzett.  He  realised  now  for 
the  first  time  that  those  days  had  been  the  beginning  of  dis- 
quiet. For  they  had  shown  him  the  difference  between  his  re- 
lations with  Morgan  as  they  were  and  as  they  might  be.  Till 
then  he  had  felt  satisfied  with  their  restrained,  almost  cere- 
monial intercourse,  but  the  privacy  and  familiarity  and  freedom 
of  those  three  days  had  shown  him  what  Morgan  could  be  if  her 
setting  were  not  a  town  but  a  home  ...  if  she  were  sitting 
opposite  to  him  beside  the  fire.  Now  he  had  his  desolate  eve- 
nings. 

He  thought  of  Brenzett — the  sweet  waking  up  and  falling 
asleep  together,  the  sharing  of  meals  and  walks  and  jokes  and 
plans.  All  he  had  now  instead  of  this  was  an  occasional  hid- 
den handclasp,  a  darted  look,  a  snatched  shuddering  moment  of 
alarms  on  the  hillside  or  in  the  wood — and  at  last  they  had 
been  seen,  their  discovery  was  beginning;  he  would  have  to 
wrap  himself  closer  and  closer  in  deceit,  court  Fanny  Vidler, 
fawn  on  Becket.  .  .  . 

Ugh !  He  sprang  up  out  of  his  chair,  and  walked  across  the 
room,  pulling  back  the  curtain  from  the  window.  Outside  he 
saw  his  own  gas  dancing  against  the  night,  then  as  his  eyes 
pierced  the  darkness  he  made  out  tangled  lumps  of  woodland 
lying  there  beyond  the  cleared  spaces  of  Becket  Grove,  in  a 


THE  BETRAYAL  169 

windy  huddle  under  the  stars.    He  dropped  the  curtain  and 
turned  back  into  the  room. 

After  all  he  had  been  a  fool  not  to  have  seen  further  at  the 
start.  He  might  have  known  that  it  would  be  impossible  for 
a  man  and  woman  to  love  undetected  in  their  public  station. 
The  eyes  of  all  Marlingate  were  upon  him,  the  tongues  of  all 
Marlingate  discussed  him,  the  minds  of  all  Marlingate  pon- 
dered him — and  she  was  in  scarcely  a  more  private  situation. 
They  were  bound  to  be  discovered  sooner  or  later,  unless  he 
stooped  to  fresh  outrages  of  deceit.  Some  men  in  his  place 
would  have  married  Fanny  Vidler,  but  the  thought  of  it  made 
him  sick. 

Besides,  what  he  wanted  was  not  a  long-drawn  intrigue;  he 
wanted  Morgan  for  his  wife.  He  had  learned  that  at  the  Bren- 
zett  Farm — he  had  learned  how  much  more  she  could  be  to 
him  than  she  was  now.  After  all,  their  relation  was  difficult 
and  unsatisfactory,  a  thing  of  alarms  and  starts  and  deceits. 
As  dear  friend  and  wife  .  .  .  the  very  thought  was  torture  to 
his  longing.  Yet  how  could  it  be?  Becket  was  her  husband, 
and  could  be  put  aside  only  through  a  scandal  which  would 
lose  Marlingate  to  the  man  who  had  made  it.  He  saw  now 
that  he  could  have  Morgan  as  he  had  dreamed,  but  only  if  he 
went  to  her  outside  the  camp,  only  if  he  shook  from  his  feet 
the  dear  dust  of  his  town.  .  .  . 

A  feeling  of  anger  rose  up  in  him.  Why  could  not  things 
have  stayed  as  they  were?  Why  could  not  he  and  Morgan 
have  tripped  on  forever  like  marionettes  through  the  combined, 
mazes  of  the  borough  dance?  Why  had  the  fiddles  suddenly 
stopped  and  left  him  with  her  there  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
knowing  that  he  must  either  bow  and  leave  her  and  seek  an- 
other partner  or  go  out  with  her  into  the  darkness,  never  to 
come  back? 

What  could  he  do?  He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  his 
mind  was  black  with  thought.  Which  of  these  two  dear  things 
could  he  forsake? — the  town  which  was  his  own  creation,  or  the 


170  TAMARISK  TOWN 

woman  whose  new  creation  he  was.  He  had  made  Marlingate  a 
town  and  Morgan  had  made  him  a  man.  Which  could  he  soon- 
est betray?  He  thought  of  his  youth  and  early  manhood  spent 
for  Marlingate,  his  watchings  and  strugglings  and  denials,  his 
achievement  and  success.  Then  he  thought  of  Morgan  and  how 
she  had  poured  fire  and  colour  into  the  grey  mould  of  his  life, 
how  she  had  brought  him  wisdom  older  than  the  world,  how  she 
had  taught  him  to  feel  and  taught  him  to  see.  He  had  been 
only  half  a  man  before  her  love  had  wakened  his  dormant  pas- 
sion and  virility,  had  picked  his  youth  out  of  the  streets  where 
he  had  lost  it  and  brought  it  back  to  delight  them  both.  He 
could  not  go  back  to  that  state  of  unfulfilment  in  which  he  had 
lived  till  he  found  her.  Marlingate  had  quickened  only  half  of 
him.  .  .  .  Marlingate  and  Morgan — if  only  he  could  have 
one  of  them  a  little  less. 

As  he  withdrew  his  hands  from  his  eyes  he  saw  the  spread 
papers  on  the  writing  table — "Constans  Fidei."  The  borough 
motto  brought  him  a  qualm  of  remorse.  Was  he  going  to  prove 
unfaithful  to  the  work  of  his  own  hands?  Of  course  by  now 
Marlingate  was  firmly  established,  and  doubtless  it  could  get 
on  without  him,  though  not  so  gloriously.  But  could  he  live 
without  it,  apart  from  its  interests,  away  from  the  sweet  for- 
malities of  its  social  life?  He  longed  to  talk  over  his  doubts 
with  Morgan,  yet  he  knew  what  her  attitude  would  be.  Mor- 
gan would  for  his  sake  leave  tomorrow  her  home,  her  husband, 
even  her  child — she  would  toss  her  good  name  like  spray  to 
the  wind.  She  could  never  understand  how  the  thought  of 
Marlingate  had  power  to  hold  him  when  all  her  links  were 
snapped  so  easily.  Her  failure  to  grasp  the  real  significance  of 
Marlingate  to  him  was  one  of  the  few  blank  spaces  in  their  re- 
lation. She  had  never  lain  awake  and  planned  its  glory, 
shuddered  at  his  risks.  .  .  .  Yet  he  remembered  Morgan  at 
Brenzett,  her  beauty,  her  straying  sweetness,  her  moods  like 
shifting  sunlight  and  chasing  wind — and  underneath  it  all  the 
calm  solid  strength  of  her  love,  half  savage,  half  maternal,  and 


THE  BETRAYAL  171 

wholly  strong  and  fine,  like  the  earth  under  waving  grass.  She 
seemed  then  to  his  stricken  thought  as  the  most  wonderful 
thing  in  the  world.  With  her  sailing  ease  and  dignity  and  grace 
she  yet  carried  that  elemental  wildness  which  would  blow  ad- 
venture into  marriage,  and  though  her  love  made  her  some- 
times just  a  form  of  physical  passion,  yet  that  passion  had  none 
of  the  frets  and  fumes  and  fires  with  which  it  wears  out  some 
souls — it  was  deep  and  still  and  peaceful  as  the  earth,  not  the 
outward  smoky  expression  of  love  but  its  inmost  core  of  rest. 
He  flung  himself  back  in  the  chair,  and  remained  huddled 
there  till  West  brought  him  his  bedtime  grog  of  hot  whiskey 
and  water.  Monypenny  sent  him  away — he  felt  he  could  not 
bear  his  presence  in  his  room — and  undressed  alone.  The  great 
gloomy  bedroom  was  cold,  and  Monypenny  hurried  through 
his  toilet,  tumbling  quickly  into  the  big  bed  where  he  lay  hud- 
dled up,  looking  strangely  small  and  insignificant  amidst  the 
heaped  bedding.  Outside  Marlingate  lay  in  a  thin  spatter  of 
lights.  A  few  street  lamps,  a  clump  of  sleeping  houses,  a  boy 
huddled  up  alone  in  a  great  bed,  so  Marlingate  and  its  Mayor 
showed  to  the  pitiful,  slow-moving  darkness. 

§9 

The  next  day  he  had  arranged  to  meet  Morgan  in  the  woods. 
There  is  a  little  hollow  just  where  Old  Rumble  Wood  sprawls 
on  to  Spitalman's  Down,  and  the  hollow,  with  the  scrub  of 
trees  beyond  it,  is  known  as  Harold's  Plat;  for  the  legend  says 
that  it  was  here  that  Harold  stood,  when  his  hairy  Saxon  troops 
poured  out  through  the  Warriors'  Gate  to  meet  the  conqueror. 
Harold's  Plat  looked  pale  and  fairy-like  that  Autumn  day.  In 
a  bright,  cold  sunshine  the  spindled  tracery  of  the  oaks  and 
ashes  waved  golden  against  the  fragile  blue  of  the  sky.  Here 
and  there  on  the  oaks  were  clumps  and  clusters  of  brown  and 
golden  leaves — the  ashes  were  bare — and  underfoot  was  a 
thick  straw  of  gold,  as  the  fallen  leaves  mixed  with  the  rusting 


172  TAMARISK  TOWN 

fern.  It  was  all  picked  out  in  frail,  shining  colours,  yet,  trem- 
ulous, gleaming  and  pale,  except  for  a  vivid  patch  of  crimson, 
which  was  Morgan's  cape,  her  little  cape  of  yesterday,  as  she 
sat  on  an  ash-stump  waiting  for  her  lover — beneath  it  her 
brown  dress  flowed  down  soberly  into  the  leaves. 

He  had  made  no  definite  plan  of  confidence,  but  it  was  as- 
tonishing how  soon  after  their  greeting  the  tale  of  his  dif- 
ficulty was  poured  out.  Perhaps  she  had  helped  it  by  her 
anxious  enquiries  as  to  his  health — she  thought  he  looked  ill 
and  harassed.  After  he  had  told  her  everything  she  sat  quite 
still,  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  but  he  saw  dawning  slowly 
in  her  eyes  the  expression  of  that  joy  which  he  had  dreaded. 

"Is  this  because  Gallop  saw  us — or  did  not  see  us — yester- 
day?" she  asked  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice. 

"Well,  it  brought  things  to  a  climax,  somehow — but  of 
course  it  was  nothing  in  itself.  I'd  been  anxious  for  weeks.  I 
— I  think  it  began  at  Brenzett." 

"Why  then?" 

"Because  then,  I  think,  I  saw  how  much  more  we  still  might 
be  to  each  other." 

Morgan's  sweet  low  laugh  broke  the  stillness  of  Harold's 
Plat.  She  turned  to  Monypenny,  and  took  his  eager,  har- 
assed face  between  her  hands.  His  eyes  were  restless  with 
pain,  and  partly  her  laugh  had  caused  it.  He  was  always  a 
little  disquieted  by  that  laugh,  low-pitched  and  trickling  like 
the  fall  of  water.  It  seemed  to  him  only  half  human,  and  it 
emphasised  those  qualities  he  could  only  partly  apprehend  in 
Morgan,  the  side  of  her  he  could  never  possess.  He  remem- 
bered how  he  had  always  been  afraid  of  her  laugh,  in  the  far- 
off  days  when  it  was  just  a  maddening  climax  to  a  general  im- 
possibility as  much  as  now  when  it  was  merely  a  flaw  in  her 
perfection.  And  yet  .  .  .  there  was  the  paradox  that  without 
this  disturbing,  elusive  side  of  her  Morgan  would  lose  half  her 
power;  the  delight,  the  freshness,  the  beauty,  and  the  adven- 


THE  BETRAYAL  173, 

ture  of  her  were  due  to  this  same,  strange,  sub-human  quality 
which  so  often  shocked  and  mystified  him. 

"Morgan,"  he  said  briefly. 

"My  dear." 

"I  know  you're  glad — but  I  wish  you  would  say  so — instead 
of  laughing." 

"Of  course  I'm  glad — and  I  can't  help  laughing.  Oh,  how  I 
should  like  to  see  the  faces  of  the  Aldermen  and  Councillors 
when  they  find  that  the  Mayor  has  run  away  with — 

It  was  a  sudden — and  practically  the  first — revival  of  little 
Wells,  the  governess.  Monypenny  stiffened. 

"But  the  Mayor  is  not  going  to  run  away.  Morgan,  I'm 
wretched  with  the  contrivance  and  uncertainty  of  all  this,  but  I 
can't  see  what  change  we  could  make  for  the  better.  I  can't 
possibly  give  up  Marlingate." 

"Why  not?"  she  asked  nonchalantly. 

"Because  I  love  it." 

"And  don't  you  love  me?" 

"Oh,  my  God!   .  .  ." 

"Well,  you  can't  love  both  of  us." 

"Why  not?"    It  was  his  turn  to  ask. 

"For  the  reasons  you've  just  given  me.  Things  have  come 
to  a  climax,  and  can't  go  on  as  they  did  before.  You've  got  to 
choose." 

"Morgan,  you  don't  know  what  this  town  means  to  me." 

"I've  heard  you  say  that  before,"  she  was  tempted  to  reply, 
but  his  expression  and  attitude  killed  all  mockery  in  her.  He 
sat  with  his  hands  clenched  on  his  knees,  his  long  chin  thrust 
forward,  and  his  mouth  set.  His  mouth  was  the  mouth  of  a 
fanatic,  but  his  eyes  were  the  eyes  of  a  lover,  craving  and  pit- 
eous, scarcely  striving  to  do  battle  with  the  sterner  part  of  him, 
merely  calling  her,  straining  to  her — she  came  closer  to  him  on 
the  ash-stump,  crushing  little  twigs  and  leaves. 

"Edward,  I  know  what  this  town  means  to  you.  I  know 
what  it  has  done  for  you  and  I  know  what  you  have  done  for  it. 


174  TAMARISK  TOWN 

You've  given  it  all  your  best,  your  youth,  your  brains,  your  en- 
ergies. You've  turned  a  poor  little  fishing-village  into  a  thriv- 
ing watering-place,  you've  made  Marlingate  famous,  and  as  far 
as  such  a  town  may  be,  beautiful.  And  now  I'll  tell  you  what 
it's  done  for  you — it's  drained  all  the  youth  and  activity  out  of 
you,  it's  made  you  narrow  and  repressed  and  middle-aged  long 
before  your  time,  it's  boxed  you  up  and  shut  you  in,  it's  throt- 
tled you  and  crushed  you,  and  if  I  had  not  been  there  to  save 
you  it  would  have  bled  you,  and  bleached  you,  thrown  you  out 
without  any  life  or  love  or  colour  left — that's  what  Marlingate 
means  to  you — it  means  your  death." 

He  was  amazed  at  the  earnestness,  almost  the  hatred,  of  her 
words.  Her  voice  shook  with  passion  against  the  town  as  if  it 
had  been  a  living  thing,  and  there  was  at  the  same  time  some- 
thing of  the  dread  and  foreboding  of  a  prophet  in  her  appeal. 
She  was  too  close  to  him  now  for  safety,  and  his  arm  stole 
round  her,  drawing  her  up  against  him — which  was  perhaps 
how  she  had  meant  the  outburst  to  end.  Their  kiss  was  the 
length  of  a  robin's  song,  among  the  bare  ash-trees  of  Harold's 
Plat,  and  when  he  lifted  his  mouth  from  hers  it  was  once  more 
the  mouth  of  a  lover. 

With  a  queer  little  sigh,  Morgan  smoothed  her  crimson  cape, 
and  settled  up  against  him  on  the  stump.  Then  she  began  to 
plan  more  definitely  and  daringly  than  he  had  ever  imagined. 
They  would  go  away  together — abroad — see  those  wonderful 
places  of  scent  and  sunshine  where  love  is  just  one  of  the  many 
flowers  of  the  land.  Becket,  always  kind,  would  grant  a  di- 
vorce, and  they  would  marry  and  live  at  Florence  or  at  Capri, 
which  she,  little  Wells,  had  seen  and  could  describe  to  the  sol- 
emn, portentous,  untravelled  Mayor  of  Marlingate.  They 
would  have  children.  .  .  . 

"And  your  own,  Morgan" — he  interrupted — "Do  you  realise 
that  you  will  have  to  leave  your  child? — will  other  children 
make  up  for  that?" 

"Lindsay  is  only  half  mine;  the  other  half  is  Hugo's — those 


THE  BETRAYAL  175 

will  be  all  mine,  because  they  will  also  be  yours,  and  you  are 

mine." 

"There's  something  not  quite  human  about  you,  Morgan." 
"Because  I  shall  love  the  children  of  the  man  I  love  better 

than  the  children  of  the  man  I  don't  love?" 
"No — not  that;  though  that  suggested  it." 

"  'Forget,  Mortal  lover,  the  wood-fairy's  kiss, 
The  kiss  of  the  child  of  the  thorn' "... 

She  mocked  him  round-eyed  and  round-mouthed  like  an  elf 
sitting  on  a  stump. 

"Those  were  doleful  verses  of  yours,  Edward — I  suspected 
then  that  there  was  something  about  me  that  you  did  not  un- 
derstand." 

He  laughed,  somehow  pleased  and  amused  at  the  inadequacy 
of  her  definition  of  his  state. 

"They  suit  you,  those  words — they  describe  you — 'the  child 
of  the  thorn.' " 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  shall  take  them  as  a  compliment." 

"You  shall — you  shall,  for  they  express  just  a  little  of  your 
wonder." 

"You  talk  like  a  poem.  When  I  first  met  you,  you  talked 
like  the  minutes  of  a  Town  Council  meeting." 

"Oh,  Morgan!  .  .  ."  Her  simile  had  revived  a  little  of  the 
lost  pain. 

"You  talk  like  a  poem,  and  in  a  month  or  two  you  shall  live 
like  a  poem." 

"My  dear — I  can't  be  sure — I  can't  promise — I — I — 

He  was  trembling  now,  his  arms  round  her  waist,  his  head 
huddled  against  her  shoulder.  She  sat  upright,  almost  triumph- 
antly, for  in  spite  of  his  stammers  and  hesitations  she  knew  that 
he  was  won.  Her  cheeks  were  red  and  glowing  as  the  leaves 
fluttering  near  her  head  or  as  the  robin's  breast  among  the 
boughs;  she  had  taken  off  her  hat,  and  held  it  in  her  lap  with 
trembling,  triumphant  hands. 


176  TAMARISK  TOWN 

Monypenny  sat  huddled  against  her,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground,  where  his  big  feet  and  her  little  ones  lay  mixed  to- 
gether in  the  leaves.  Once  he  looked  up  and  saw  in  the  dim 
distance,  in  a  dip  of  the  woods,  all  spindled  over  with  the  bare 
branches  of  Harold's  Plat,  a  patch  of  red.  It  was  Marlingate, 
just  where  it  silts  up  against  All  Holland  Hill,  above  the  High 
Street  and  the  old  Gut's  Mouth.  He  stared  at  it  almost  un- 
recognisingly,  then  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  beautiful,  glowing, 
mysterious  face  above  him. 

"The  child  of  the  thorn.  .   .  ." 


§  10 

The  next  day  was  a  great  day  in  Marlingate,  for  it  was  the 
day  of  the  Mayoral  election  and  also,  in  the  afternoon,  of  the 
Opening  of  the  Marine  Gardens  and  Aquarium  by  the  newly- 
elected  Monypenny.  There  had  never  been  any  question  of  a 
rival,  and  indeed  all  the  municipal  elections  had  passed  off  very 
peacefully.  There  had  been  a  sharpish  contest  in  the  Fish 
Street  Ward,  where  Vidler  had  risked  losing  his  seat  to  a  fish- 
erman candidate,  one  of  Gallop's  numerous  sons-in-law;  and 
Becket  had  been  returned  for  St.  Nicholas'  Ward  in  the  place 
of  Wastel,  who  was  retiring  on  the  plea  of  old  age  and  failing 
health.  Otherwise  the  Town  Council  was  exactly  as  before, 
and  went  whole-heartedly  to  the  business  of  re-electing  Mony- 
penny as  Mayor.  Then  followed  the  election  of  Aldermen,  with 
the  addition  of  Lusted  and  Breeds.  Tom  Potter  was  started 
on  his  thirteenth  year  as  Town  Clerk,  and  finally  the  Town 
Committee  was  reappointed,  enriched  by  a  Hurdicott  of  Grave- 
ley. 

After  the  elections  came  luncheon  at  the  Marine  Hotel — the 
Mayoral  Banquet  would  take  place  at  the  Maidenhood  the  next 
day.  Then  the  solemn  procession  formed  itself,  and  wound 
down  the  High  Street  to  the  Marine  Gardens  and  Aquarium. 
It  was  very  like  the  day  of  Monypenny's  first  election  to  the 


THE  BETRAYAL  177 

Mayoralty.  The  town  turned  out  on  its  streets  to  see  the  young 
Mayor  drive  by,  erect  and  solitary  in  his  huge  swaying  car- 
riage, with  the  two  mace-bearers  mounted  behind  in  blue  and 
silver  cloaks  and  laced  hats. 

"Monypenny,    Monypenny, 
Mayor  of  Marlingate." 

The  town  boys  had  made  a  kind  of  song  of  it  since  the  last 
occasion,  and  chanted  it  after  his  carriage  as  it  rolled  and  wal- 
lowed in  the  trough  of  the  street,  between  the  high  pavements, 
which  towered  above  him,  so  that  in  some  places  the  feet  of  the 
spectators  were  on  a  level  with  his  cocked  hat.  Monypenny  did 
not  look  so  shy  and  formal  as  he  had  looked  two  years  ago, 
neither  did  he  look  so  excited  and  proud.  The  morning's  for- 
malities had  wearied  him  a  little;  he  had  been  conscious  of  a 
burning  impatience  to  get  shut  of  this  borough  traffic,  and  do 
the  two  things  he  wanted  most — think,  and  talk  to  Morgan. 

All  the  afternoon  of  the  day  before,  and  most  of  the  night 
he  had  pondered  the  new  set  of  circumstances  that  had  arisen, 
the  new  adventure  that  had  broken  up  the  old.  He  had  not,  in 
fact,  utterly  committed  himself  to  it,  but  it  was  shaping  itself 
firmly  in  his  mind,  and  this  evening  he  was  going  to  see  Mor- 
gan to  discuss  details.  The  broader  facts — departure,  a  for- 
eign country,  divorce,  and  at  last  marriage — were  plain  enough, 
but  all  lesser  matters  of  place  and  time  and  opportunity  had 
still  to  be  considered,  and  he  must  see  the  thing  as  a  whole  be- 
fore he  inevitably  pledged  himself.  In  spite,  however,  of  this 
reservation,  he  felt  that  he  already  belonged  to  the  new  life,  as 
if  all  this  traffic  and  parade  was  merely  the  tail  of  a  retreat- 
ing past.  The  morning  ceremonies  in  the  Town  Hall  had 
seemed  to  him  strangely  unreal  and  newly  irksome;  the  pom- 
pous talk,  the  florid  oratory  of  the  luncheon  at  the  Marine  Ho- 
tel had  awakened  an  entirely  new  feeling  of  contemptuous  tol- 
eration; and  now  in  the  carriage,  his  Mayoral  trappings  of 
chain  and  hat  and  scarlet  robes  seemed  to  choke  him  and  weigh 


178  TAMARISK  TOWN 

him  down,  as  they  had  done  on  that  solemn  occasion  in  the 
Town  Park,  before  Morgan  le  Fay  came  blowing  over  the 
grass  like  a  flower. 

He  longed  to  have  finished  the  afternoon's  ceremony,  and 
yet,  perversely,  as  he  went  deeper  into  it,  .t  began  to  hold 
him.  After  all  he  could  not  help  feeling  a  little  ashamed  of 
his  detachment — when  he  remembered  all  the  joy  and  excite- 
ment and  satisfaction  that  Marlingate  had  given  him  there 
seemed  not  a  little  ingratitude  in  this  present  remoteness.  It 
might  be  true,  as  Morgan  had  said,  that  it  had  thwarted  and 
choked  and  aged  him,  but  after  all  it  had  made  him  what  she 
loved;  it  was  a  part  of  his  nature  and  he  could  not  imagine  him- 
self without  it.  Its  influences  had  moulded  his  boyhood,  its 
exigencies  had  shaped  his  manhood,  its  repressions  had  made 
him  the  brimming  vessel  of  love  at  which  her  thirst  was  slaked 
— by  no  other  means  could  he  have  become  what  she 
adored.  ...  So  his  thoughts  ran  on  as  he  sat  there  erect  in 
the  great  carriage  wallowing  down  the  High  Street,  while 
bright  coloured  shawls  and  crinolines  swung  above  him  on  the 
pavements,  and  the  bells  of  St.  Nicholas  clashed  in  their  crock- 
eted  tower,  and  the  town-boys  sang: 

"Monypenny,  Monypenny, 
Mayor  of  Marlingate." 

The  carriage  rolled  on  out  of  the  High  Street  on  to  the  Ma- 
rine Parade.  Here  a  delicate  sunshine  poured  down  suddenly 
from  the  shredded  November  sky,  and  in  it  swam  all  the  white 
fagade  with  which  Marlingate  fronted  the  sea.  The  bandstand 
stood  up  like  a  boss  of  gold  on  a  marble  plate,  and  behind  it  the 
long  line  of  houses  from  the  High  Street  to  Fish  Street  was  al- 
most crystalline,  almost  the  dream  that  had  surged  in  Mony- 
penny's  brain  before  it  took  shape  on  earth  in  stone  and  stucco. 
He  was  dazzled  by  the  swerve  into  gleaming  whiteness  out  of 
the  muddled  colours  of  the  High  Street,  and  scarcely  noticed 
the  sea  as  it  lay  green  and  deep  against  the  breakwaters,  with 


THE  BETRAYAL  179 

the  soft  blurred  tatter  of  the  sky  reflected  on  it  in  strangely 
cumbrous  shadows. 

The  procession  stopped  at  the  entrance  to  the  Marine  Gar- 
dens. These  lay  at  the  end  of  the  Parade,  right  under  Cuckoo 
Hill,  swallowing  up  the  America  Ground  and  part  of  the  old 
sea-road  along  which  Morgan  had  dragged  and  stumbled  ten 
years  ago.  It  was  a  sheltered  corner,  screened  from  wind,  and 
swamped  in  sun,  which  also  streamed  back  on  it  from  the  baked 
and  basking  cliffs  of  Cuckoo  Hill.  Its  closeness  to  the  sea  pre- 
vented the  growth  of  anything  except  sea-shore  plants,  and 
these  in  the  present  season  were  not  in  flower.  But  there  were 
prepared  walls  of  rock,  to  be  smothered  in  their  time  with  cush- 
ions of  thrift,  and  pits  and  crannies  where  the  horned  poppy 
could  grow,  while  a  ring  of  tamarisks  spun  a  green  web  round 
the  big  outdoor  tank  of  the  Aquarium.  There  was  also  an 
Aquarium-building,  topped  by  a  glass  dome,  containing,  be- 
sides various  sea  wonders  rather  diffidently  purchased  by  the 
Corporation,  swimming  baths  for  both  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
seaweed  baths,  brine  baths  and  other  modest  experiments,  in 
hydropathy.  In  the  white  arch  of  the  entrance  were  several 
genteel  mechanical  toys  in  glass  cases — a  church  that  when 
a  penny  was  inserted  would  hum  with  organ  music  and  send  a 
choir  rotating  through  the  porches,  peasants  that  danced  round 
a  queer  little  tree  which  bore  two  kinds  of  fruit,  orange  and  pur- 
ple, and  a  drawing-room  scene  in  which  papa  got  up  and  poked 
the  fire  and  mamma  wound  a  skein  of  crimson  wool  off  the  stiff- 
stretched  arms  of  a  wooden  daughter.  These  were  meant  chief- 
ly for  the  young  people  of  Marlingate,  though  their  elders 
would  be  sure  to  admire  such  ingenious  and  select  devices. 

Grouped  in  the  entrance  were  various  members  of  the  Mar- 
lingate aristocracy  who  had  not  taken  part  in  the  procession — 
the  Leo  Hurdicotts  and  the  Alaric  Papillons,  the  Fulleyloves 
and  the  Arthur  Fulleyloves  (a  callow,  whiskered  son  and  Vic- 
toria Hurdicott),  Lady  Cockstreet  and  Morgan  Becket  in  a 
dress  of  the  colour  of  a  half-ripe  blackberry.  Monypenny  was 


i8o  TAMARISK  TOWN 

conscious  of  her  challenging  glance  flung  him  between  the  bon- 
nets of  Mrs.  Arthur  and  Mrs.  Leo.  But  he  would  not  meet  it, 
perhaps  was  not  meant  to  do  so;  only,  as  it  wavered  to  him 
through  the  elect  like  light  through  water,  he  felt  a  sudden,  un- 
expected twang  of  resentment — because  she  would  not  let  him 
lie  in  the  returning  peace  of  town  traffic,  but  must  needs  for  a 
moment  twist  him  out  of  his  surroundings,  spin  him  to  the 
woods  and  show  him  in  Old  Rummage  and  Harold's  Plat  the 
beginning  and  the  end  of  his  surrender.  Resentment  passed 
naturally  into  defiance,  and  he  found  himself  stuck  on  the  re- 
solve to  enjoy  this  last  borough  ceremony.  Since  this  was  the 
last  time  that  he  would  stand  in  his  Mayoral  vestments,  offer- 
ing like  a  priest  the  sacrifice  of  the  town's  wonders,  he  must 
avail  himself  to  the  full  of  his  right  to  eat  of  the  sacrifice.  The 
strange  rigour  in  which  he  had  dragged  through  the  morning 
had  passed  away,  releasing  his  cramped  municipal  emotions — 
he  felt  them  pricking  into  his  heart  like  blood  returning  to  a 
numbed  limb.  Tamarisk  Town  .  .  .  built  of  the  stuff  of  his 
dreams,  of  his  own  substance,  of  his  own  soul,  now  to  be  re- 
nounced in  its  perfection  ...  he  felt  his  love  for  it  returning 
as  a  sickness  of  which  he  must  die. 

Everyone  agreed  that  the  Mayor  had  never  spoken  with  such 
force  as  at  the  opening  of  the  Marine  Gardens.  He  was  almost 
ardent — the  fire  of  his  zeal  melted  his  usual  short,  staccato 
sentences,  running  them  together  in  a  new  stream  of  eloquence. 
People  were  surprised,  but  they  had  noted  many  changes  in  the 
Mayor  of  late,  and  most  of  them  could  remember  the  long 
struggle  over  the  America  Ground,  and  could  realise  his  tri- 
umph in  this  blossoming  of  the  desert  as  a  rose. 

Monypenny's  enthusiasm  made  the  story  of  the  Marine  Gar- 
dens almost  an  epic.  He  described  the  mock  city  that  used  to 
be  here — the  rope-walks,  the  gin-shops,  the  smell  of  tar  and  ooze 
and  brine  and  rotting  Robin  Huss,  the  inverted  hulls  with  their 
crooked,  smoking  chimneys,  the  ruffianly  pikers  and  gypsies 
who  had  preyed  and  spied  on  the  gentilities  of  Marlingate.  He 


THE  BETRAYAL  181 

told  of  his  plottings  with  Alderman  Vidler,  the  slow  workings  of 
the  Commission  of  Woods  and  Forests,  the  arguments  and  in- 
spections— and  here,  only  once,  he  wavered,  as  he  remembered 
how  on  one  of  these  he  had  found  Morgan  le  Fay  blowing  about 
the  America  Ground  like  a  leaf,  and  how  he  had  torn  and 
crushed  her.  He  recovered  his  voice  with  what  sounded  rather 
like  a  tremor  of  anger,  and  went  on  to  tell  how  his  town  had 
triumphed  over  the  mock  town  like  the  truth  over  a  lie — and 
now  over  the  site  of  the  old  illusion  crept  the  spreading  beauty 
of  Marlingate  in  a  tide  of  flowers  and  music  and  wonder.  The 
Aquarium  was  in  many  ways  the  town's  most  subtle  triumph — 
Monypenny's  cheeks  burned  as  he  spoke  of  it,  and  his  eyes 
glowed  like  a  boy's  and  a  lover's.  Then,  as,  carried  away  by 
the  new  eloquence,  he  made  a  queer  little  florid  peroration, 
Morgan's  challenge  came  to  him  again,  flung  him  from  un- 
der level  brows  over  Becket's  shoulder.  This  time  he  caught 
it  and  held  it  and  flung  it  back  to  her. 

§  ii 

The  procession  re-formed  itself  and  wound  up  the  High 
Street  away  from  the  creeping  shadows  of  the  sea.  At  the 
Town  Hall  Monypenny  unrobed,  and  talked  a  little  to  Vidler 
and  Pelham.  He  was  still  defiant  and  elated,  and  the  Alder- 
men found  him  almost  talkative.  They  discussed  a  few  de- 
tails of  the  next  day's  banquet,  and  the  Mayor  was  congratu- 
lated anew  on  the  success  of  the  afternoon. 

"Reckon  we  won't  want  any  more  Sophia  of  Worcesters  to 
open  our  shows,"  said  Vidler. 

"We'll  try  Pelham  next  time,"  said  Monypenny  with  a 
comradely  laugh.  "He's  a  better  speaker  than  I,  and  ought 
to  get  a  chance." 

Pelham  bowed  elegantly  from  the  top  of  his  trousers. 

"Many  thanks,  Monypenny,  for  a  graceful  compliment;  I 


182  TAMARISK  TOWN  ' 

should  be  delighted — but  I  am  not  aware  that  we  have — er — 
anything  left  to  open." 

" We'll  find  something,  never  fear — a  church,  or  a  sewer; 
I'll  see  that  you  find  some  pot  for  your  flowers  of  speech  to 
grow  in,"  and  Monypenny  slapped  Pelham  on  the  back  to  the 
utter  amazement  of  the  Corporation.  No  one  had  ever  seen 
him  in  such  an  unbending  mood — he  was  actually  whistling  as 
he  left  the  Town  Hall. 

As  he  walked  up  the  High  Street  to  Gun  Garden  House, 
he  knew  that  his  high  spirits  were  partly  due  to  the  realisa- 
tion that  he  had  not  as  yet  definitely  pledged  himself  to  aban- 
don Marlingate.  Of  course  he  had  always  been  aware  of 
this,  but  the  knowledge  had  not  seemed  of  much  account.  De- 
sires bound  him  if  not  words,  and  it  was  only  when  desire  was 
weakened  that  he  realised  his  freedom  from  the  shackles  of  a 
vow.  Not  that  he  definitely  meant  to  refuse  Morgan,  but  he 
was  glad  to  know  himself  free,  or  otherwise  he  might  have 
found  a  reproaching  pain  in  those  streets,  now  slowly  falling 
into  the  brown  November  dusk.  By  the  time  he  was  in  his 
room  at  Gun  Garden  House  all  the  trough  of  the  town  was 
full  of  orange  lights — Fish  Street  and  High  Street  were  clearly 
pricked  out  in  the  swale,  and  the  lights  swarmed  together  in 
constellations  down  by  the  old  Gut's  Mouth,  or  winked  as 
lonely  stars  from  the  slopes  of  Rye  Lane  and  Mount  Idle. 
Looking  up  to  the  sky  it  was  almost  a  surprise  to  Monypenny 
to  see  lights  there  too,  as  if  a  dim  city  hung  there,  of  which 
those  lights  between  the  hills  were  only  a  reflection.  It  was 
queer  to  think  what  strange  tricks  Marlingate  had  played  him 
at  night — once  it  had  disembodied  itself  and  mocked  him  with 
its  ghost,  once  it  had  altogether  disappeared  and  frightened 
him  with  a  misty  pool,  out  of  which  he  had  had  to  drag  it 
piece  by  piece,  and  tonight  it  was  only  the  reflection  of  an- 
other town,  of  a  city  hung  in  the  sky.  .  .  . 

He  was  dining  wth  Morgan  at  the  newly  fashionable  hour 
of  seven.  They  had  both  been  looking  forward  for  some  time 


THE  BETRAYAL  183 

to  this  meal  alone  together.  Becket  was  dining  that  night  in 
town  with  the  Clothworkers'  Company;  he  had  gone  up  di- 
rectly after  the  ceremony  of  the  Marine  Gardens,  and  hoped 
to  be  back  in  time  for  the  Mayoral  Banquet  next  day — mean- 
time he  had  asked  Monypenny  to  entertain  his  wife  during  her 
solitary  evening,  a  request  which  had  given  Monypenny  some 
qualms  of  dishonour  unshared  by  his  companion. 

The  dinner  was  solemn  and  formal.  Servants  padded  to 
and  fro  in  the  dusk  behind  the  table.  On  the  table  candles 
burned  under  orange  shades,  and  bloomed  with  orange  Mor- 
gan's pointed  face.  She  talked  to  him  about  the  weather, 
about  books,  about  the  settlement  of  the  American  Civil 
War,  about  the  great  fire  at  Limoges  and  the  Prince  of  Wales's 
visit  to  Denmark.  It  was  exactly  like  a  dozen  other  dinners 
they  had  eaten  together,  except  that  whereas  on  those  more 
crowded  occasions,  when  they  had  been  just  two  among  a 
throng  of  guests,  each  had  been  glowingly  conscious  of  the 
adventure  that  linked  them,  now  when  they  ate  alone,  this 
sense  of  hidden  communion  seemed  to  fail.  Whether  it  was 
because  this  meal  lacked  the  daring  of  secret  glances,  of  words 
stressed  for  a  lover's  ear,  or  whether  the  fault  lay  just  in  a 
tacit  strife,  would  be  hard  to  say.  Probably  it  was  due  to 
Monypenny,  who  was  still  a  little  intoxicated  with  the  Marine 
Gardens,  and  had  that  night  an  Aldermanic  swagger.  Once 
he  told  Morgan  that  he  was  thinking  of  building  a  church — the 
town  was  growing  beyond  the  accommodation  of  St.  Nicholas; 
he  would  build  a  church  at  the  north  end  of  Gingerbread 
Green,  and  put  a  Puseyite  into  it,  which  would  attract  a  new 
and  desirable  set  of  people.  It  would  be  interesting  to  see 
what  Figg  could  do  in  the  ecclesiastical  line.  Then  he  blinked 
at  her  defiantly,  as  if  to  say — "You  see,  my  dear,  I  intend  to 
be  in  this  town  for  some  time  yet." 

Morgan  drank  a  glass  of  wine  when  the  fruit  was  on  the 
table,  then  went  up  to  the  drawing-room.  Monypenny  sat 
for  a  while  over  his  port  and  cigar,  then  joined  her.  He  felt 


184  TAMARISK  TOWN 

disturbed,  for  the  afternoon's  realisation  had  almost  become  the 
evening's  resolution.  The  words  he  had  not  said  at  last  seemed 
more  important  than  those  he  had.  He  had  nearly  yielded 
in  Harold's  Plat,  but  the  last  pledge  had  not  been  definitely 
made — his  signature  was  not  yet  fixed  to  the  articles  of  sur- 
render. 

His  reluctance  had  grown  almost  imperceptibly.  It  had 
started  as  a  feeling  of  shame  for  his  remoteness  from  Marlin- 
gate's  latest  triumph.  Then  the  ceremony  at  the  Marine  Gar- 
dens had  genuinely  gripped  him;  he  had  been  thrilled  by  his 
own  tale  of  his  struggles  with  the  America  Ground,  and  the 
sense  of  his  achievement  had  surged  up  in  him,  restoring  the 
old  values,  breaking  down  the  barrier  which  had  risen  like  an 
enchantment  between  him  and  his  town. 

In  the  drawing-room  he  found  Morgan  a  little  impatient. 

"What  a  time  you've  been!  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  gone 
to  sleep  over  the  port — it  would  be  quite  in  keeping  with  your 
Aldermanic  mood." 

"Am  I  very  like  an  Alderman  tonight?" 

"You're  'Monypenny,  Monypenny,  Mayor  of  Marlingate'— 
you're  all  the  Aldermen  and  Councillors  rolled  into  one — you're 
the  Mayor  and  Corporation,  the  Town  Clerk  and  the  Town 
Crier.  .  .  .» 

He  stood  on  the  hearthrug  looking  down  at  her  as  she  lay 
back  lazily  in  a  big  arm-chair,  the  firelight  shuttling  up  and 
down  her  silken  skirts,  her  face  tilted  into  the  shadow,  where 
her  eyes  gleamed. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Morgan. 

He  sat  down  at  her  feet  and  she  pulled  back  his  head  against 
her  knee,  stroking  the  thick  white  hair  from  his  crumpled 
forehead. 

"Of  course,"  said  Monypenny,  pursuing  aloud  an  argument 
he  had  waged  internally  over  the  port,  "I  oughtn't  to  have 
stood  for  re-election  this  year.  I  should  have  let  Pelham  be 
Mayor." 


THE  BETRAYAL  185 

"My  dear  Edward,  are  you  going  to  talk  borough  politics  all 
the  evening?  I  thought  we  meant  to  discuss  a  more  important 
matter." 

"But  don't  you  see  that  it's  bound  up  with  it?  If  I  wasn't 
Mayor  I — I  might — well,  I  might  feel  differently  about  leav- 
ing Marlingate." 

Unaware  of  the  ground  that  had  been  yielded  since  her  tri- 
umph in  Harold's  Plat,  she  felt  almost  magnanimous  to  the 
beaten  town. 

"Pelham  is  Deputy  Mayor — he  will  step  into  your  shoes 
directly  you  are  gone." 

He  suddenly  turned  his  face  to  her  knee,  hiding  it  in  the 
soft,  fire-warmed  silk. 

"Morgan,  Morgan  ...  I  can't." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

He  felt  her  shudder,  and  her  hand  dropped  quickly  from 
his  hair  to  his  cheek,  pressing  his  head  against  her  skirts. 

"I  mean  that  we  must  go  on  as  before — for  a  time  at  least. 
I  can't  leave  Marlingate." 

She  did  not  speak.  His  words  seemed  to  have  killed  her 
words  like  foes  in  battle. 

"My  dear,"  he  continued,  murmuring  into  her  lap,  "I  love 
you;  you're  my  own  self.  But  so  is  Marlingate.  It's  a  part  of 
myself  as  truly  as  you  are." 

"Monypenny,  Morgan,  and  Marlingate — a  trinity  in  dis- 
unity"— and  her  laugh  rose  sudden  and  strident,  like  wind  be- 
hind a  house. 

It  did  not  fail  to  produce  its  usual  effect.  Monypenny  threw 
himself  back  from  her  knee  and  met  her  eyes  almost  angrily. 

"Morgan,  you  won't  understand " 

—What  this  town  means  to  you.  Is  it  natural  that  I  should 
understand?  Is  it  natural  that  after  all  we  have  been  to  each 
other  I  should  understand  why  you  forsake  me  for  a  beggarly 
town?  .  .  ." 

"I  am  not  forsaking  you.     God  knows  we've  been  happy 


186  TAMARISK  TOWN 

enough  during  the  last  eighteen  months — can't  we  get  back 
to  those  times?" 

"No,  we  can't,  for  they're  gone.  It's  no  use,  Edward.  Sure- 
ly you're  not  deceiving  yourself  with  the  thought  that  after 
this  we  can  go  back  to  the  old  conditions.  You  yourself  have 
said  it  is  impossible." 

"So  I  thought — but  I  see  things  differently  now.  I  got 
panic-stricken.  I  made  sure  we  would  be  discovered.  Now 
I  feel  saner — after  all  there's  no  trace  of  a  rumour  about  us  in 
the  town — if  Gallop  had  spoken — 

"Ah,  I  see,  you  were  not  so  much  running  away  with  me  as 
running  away  from  Gallop,  and  now  that  Gallop  neither  barks 
nor  bites  the  necessity  is  past." 

She  was  surprised  at  the  anger  in  her  voice,  and  realising  that 
it  would  scarcely  help  her,  strangled  it  into  an  appeal. 

"Edward — my  dear — can't  you  understand  why  I  don't  want 
to  return  to  our  old  secret  ways?  It  isn't  because  they  will 
lead  to  our  being  found  out  but  because  they  will  kill  our 
love." 

"Why  should  they  kill  it?" 

"Starvation,  anxiety,  fear,  hiding,  denial — all  these  things 
kill  love." 

"But  I'm  not  suggesting  that  the  arrangement  should  be 
permanent — only  till  my  year  of  office  is  ended." 

"But  what  difference  will  there  be  when  it  is  ended?  Mar- 
lingate  will  be  there  just  the  same  and  you'll  still  be  the  most 
important  man  in  it.  The  Mayoralty  is  just  a  decoration — 
it  makes  no  real  difference  to  your  position  in  the  town.  If 
you  can't  break  free  now  you  can't  break  free  then." 

He  saw  the  truth  of  her  words  and  they  brought  him  back 
helplessly  to  his  first  statement. 

"I  can't  leave  Marlingate." 

The  hopelessness  of  it  all  rushed  over  her,  overwhelmed  her 
— the  invincibility  of  the  town  that  had  always  stood  between 


THE  BETRAYAL  187 

them.  Her  strength  left  her,  her  rage  collapsed,  and  she  began 
to  cry. 

Monypenny  took  her  in  his  arms.  His  own  tears  were  not 
far  off,  and  yet  he  never  felt  more  firmly  dug  into  his  pur- 
pose. Morgan  felt  his  triumph  even  as  he  caressed  her,  and 
suddenly  pushed  him  away. 

"Don't  Edward — it's  no  use.  We're  hopelessly  divided,  and 
this  is  mere  weakness." 

"Why  should  it  divide  us  now? — it  didn't  before.  Oh, 
Morgan,  don't  you  know  how  happy  I  was  during  those  months 
when  Marlingate  was  just  the  setting  of  our  love?  I  loved 
you  better  because  of  the  town  and  the  town  because  of  you." 

"And  I?  You  never  troubled  about  what  I  felt — "  she 
laughed — "I'll  tell  you  now.  I  felt  that  Marlingate  was  the 
prison  of  our  love,  just  as  it's  always  been  the  prison  of  your 
soul ;  and  I  hated  it — I  hated  it — and  I  vowed  that  I  would  get 
you  away  from  it,  and  let  you  know  what  it  was  to  spread 
your  wings  and  fly  up  into  the  sun,  instead  of  hopping  and  twit- 
tering round  your  cage,  and  pretending  it  was  the  world  when 
it  was  only  your  prison." 

It  had  always  been  Morgan's  fate,  ever  since  the  days  of 
little  Wells,  to  show  her  hand  too  openly.  Now  Monypenny 
recoiled — his  sad  eyes  grew  cold,  and  his  mouth  straight  and 
civic. 

"I  know  you've  always  hated  Marlingate — and  that  means 
you've  always  hated  something  in  me.  If  you  really  loved 
me  you  would  love  Marlingate." 

He  would  have  recalled  the  words  as  soon  as  uttered,  but 
it  was  too  late — they  were  spoken  and  she  had  taken  up  their 
challenge  with  her  laugh  like  the  wail  of  the  rising  wind. 

"Very  well,  I  hate  you,  then — because  I  hate  the  thing  that's 
there  to  ruin  you,  that  will  ruin' you  now,  since  you've  refused 
your  chance  of  escape.  If  that's  hate,  then  I  hate  you." 

He  was  silent — her  mood  jarred  on  him  almost  as  much  as  a 
mood  of  little  Wells.  This  fine  lady  was  throwing  off  her 


i88  TAMARISK  TOWN 

skin,  and  showing  him  underneath  all  the  primitive  things  that 
were  his  enemies.  At  present  anger  and  his  surviving  elation 
sustained  him,  but  he  had  a  feeling  that  if  he  stayed  much 
longer  these  would  go,  and  it  would  all  become  sad — inex- 
pressibly sad. 

"I  don't  think  there's  any  good  my  stopping  longer  tonight," 
he  said  slowly — "we're  almost  quarrelling." 

"And  we'll  have  quarrelled  quite  after  another  six  months 
of  the  old  ways,  as  you  call  them." 

"Morgan — don't — don't  make  things  so  hard." 

He  held  out  his  arms,  but  she  swung  away  from  them.  He 
flushed,  and  walked  quickly  to  the  door,  glancing  back  from  the 
threshhold  to  see  her  standing  defiant  by  the  hearth,  blazing  in 
her  crimson  dress  like  an  autumn  tree. 

§  12 

For  some  minutes  after  he  was  gone  Morgan  did  not  move; 
she  stood  proudly  by  the  fire,  one  arm  on  the  mantelpiece,  the 
other  hanging  at  her  side.  She  heard  him  go  down  the  long 
flights  of  the  narrow  house,  then  there  was  a  pause  while  he 
put  on  his  overcoat  in  the  hall,  then  the  front  door  slammed — 
footsteps  sounded  on  the  damp  asphalt  path  that  ran  under  a 
tunnel  of  alder  and  arbutus  to  the  gate.  Then  the  gate  clacked 
softly  and  the  footsteps  crunched  on  the  muddy  shingle  of  the 
road  .  .  .  they  began  to  die  away,  and  her  ears  strained  after 
them  .  .  .  they  came  more  distinctly  as  they  rang  between  the 
houses  on  the  Coney  Bank  steps,  clanking  slowly  down  into  the 
muffled,  draggled  silence  of  the  November  night. 

Morgan  dropped  into  her  chair  and  covered  her  face.  She 
had  refused  to  give  way  while  a  sound  of  him  still  hung  in  the 
darkness,  for  she  knew  what  he  did  not  know.  She  knew  that 
this  was  no  lover's  quarrel,  to  be  followed  by  a  doubtful  patch- 
ing or  a  splendid  reconciliation.  It  was  the  end — her  smashing 
defeat  by  Marlingate.  She  had  met  the  town  in  square  and 


THE  BETRAYAL  189 

open  fight,  and  it  had  beaten  her.  The  witchcraft  of  Morgan  le 
Fay  had  not  prevailed  against  it — and  she  had  been  so  near 
victory.  ...  It  was  just  that  very  nearness  which  now  showed 
her  the  hopelessness  of  her  defeat. 

"Oh,  Edward  .  .  .  Edward  .  .  ." 

The  cry  broke  from  her.  She  longed  for  the  man  she  had 
been  too  weak  to  win.  Her  powers  had  failed  her,  her  spells 
had  just  fallen  short  of  the  great  enchantment;  and  yet  she 
had  not  wanted  him  quite  selfishly,  she  had  wanted  him  for  his 
own  sake  as  well  as  for  hers. 

It  was  only  nine  o'clock,  and  she  sat  for  another  hour,  hud- 
dled in  her  chair,  while  the  fire  died  at  her  feet.  The  room 
lost  its  red  glow,  and  the  chandelier  flared  yellow  against  the 
ceiling.  The  hard,  throbbing  light  made  her  eyes  ache,  but 
she  felt  too  languid,  too  badly  bruised,  to  stand  up  and  lower 
the  gas.  For  an  hour  she  hoped  that  Monypenny  would  come 
back,  then  hope  died — because  she  knew  he  would  come  back, 
not  tonight,  but  tomorrow  or  in  a  day  or  two,  expecting  to  go 
on  with  what  she  knew  was  ended.  He  did  not  see  things  as 
she  saw  them — he  was  blind  and  dazzled  with  his  mirage — 
but  she  saw  clearly  that  he  had  renounced  her  in  refusing  to 
renounce  Marlingate.  He  did  not  know  he  had  renounced  her 
— that  was  what  made  it  all  so  pitiful — he  felt  they  were 
estranged,  but  he  did  not  know  that  they  were  sundered.  He 
had  gone  off  with  hope  smouldering  under  his  anger,  and  soon 
hope  would  blaze  up  and  show  him  his  old  illusion — of  their 
love  set  in  the  frame  of  Marlingate,  of  that  ceremonial,  secret 
sweet  relation  which  he  had  loved  and  she  had  hated.  Bah! 
he  had  made  of  their  love  an  arabesque,  a  flittering  shadow,  a 
spindle  that  shuttled  against  the  blazing  background  of  his 
town.  Her  hands  clenched  with  anger — she  hated  him  for  his 
blindness,  for  his  obstinate  sacrifice  to  shadows;  he  was  an  ig- 
norant child  and  she  despised  him.  Then  suddenly  her  rage 
melted  into  grief,  her  head  sank  slowly  to  her  clenched  hands, 
and  she  began  to  sob — she  sobbed  into  her  own  lap,  while  the 


igo  TAMARISK  TOWN 

gas  whined  in  the  chandelier  above  her,  and  the  dead  ashes 
dropped  on  the  hearth. 

At  ten  o'clock  her  maid  came  in,  and  Morgan  decided  to  go 
to  bed.  Her  head  ached,  and  at  first  she  felt  almost  healed  by 
the  relief  of  lying  down  in  the  darkness,  but  soon  it  seemed  as 
if  the  darkness  had  only  driven  in  the  pain — into  her  brain 
and  heart.  She  tossed  to  and  fro  and  her  thoughts  tramped 
by  like  a  procession — one  of  those  poor  shows  of  a  third-rate 
theatre,  where  the  same  actor  comes  round  and  round  again, 
perhaps  with  a  flimsy  attempt  at  disguise,  perhaps  unblush- 
ing in  his  reappearance.  Sometimes  she  was  angry,  and  some- 
times she  was  sorrowful,  and  sometimes  she  was  hard  and  bit- 
ter, and  sometimes  she  was  soft  and  piteous,  and  often  she  was 
just  tired,  a  form  of  helplessness  and  exhaustion,  feeling  that 
she  could  sink  through  the  bed  to  a  rest  which  seemed  always 
out  of  reach. 

She  slept  a  little  at  the  turn  of  the  night,  but  woke  early, 
and  was  tossing  and  haggard  when  her  maid  brought  her  choc- 
olate and  pulled  back  the  curtains. 

"I'm  afraid  you  haven't  slept  well,  Ma'am." 

"No,  Henderson.    I've  got  a  headache." 

"Then  will  you  have  Miss  Lindsay  in,  Ma'am?  Nurse  was 
saying " 

"Yes,  I  remember.  I  told  nurse  to  bring  her  in,  and  she 
may  as  well  come.  She's  a  good  baby." 

"Very  well,  Ma'am." 

A  few  minutes  later  Lindsay  appeared,  curly  and  compla- 
cent, and  suggested  that  Mamma  should  read  to  her. 

Curiously  enough  Morgan  had  just  begun  to  long  for  Becket. 
She  felt  that  she  could  have  found  rest  in  his  solid  kindness,  in 
his  homely,  unimaginative  caresses.  Now  she  took  the  child 
into  her  arms  with  unaccustomed  eagerness,  kissing  the  brown 
curls  damp  from  the  nurse's  brush,  and  the  little  warm  face 
which  was  so  like  her  own,  and  so  reproachfully  different. 
Lindsay  pointed  to  her  shoes. 


THE  BETRAYAL  191 

"New  shoes,"  she  remarked  comfortably. 

"So  I  see.    Who  bought  them  for  you?" 

"Mamma." 

"Whom  do  you  love?" 

"Mamma,"  said  Lindsay  like  a  well-trained  child. 

Morgan  took  her  book,  which  was  "Andersen's  Fairy  Tales," 
and  read  part  of  the  story  of  the  little  sea-maiden,  who  loved 
the  prince  and  wanted  to  be  human  for  his  sake,  though  it 
hurt  her  like  treading  on  sharp  knives.  At  this  point  Lindsay 
began  to  cry  because  the  poor  little  girl  had  lost  her  tail.  Mor- 
gan felt  she  could  cry  too,  if  her  tears  had  not  all  been  dry. 
Why,  she  wondered,  were  even  children's  tales  so  sad?  Here 
in  this  fairy-tale  of  her  baby's  was  the  story  of  love's  sacrifice 
offered  in  vain.  Instead  of  grasping  immortality  in  the  love 
she  had  walked  on  knives  to  win,  the  little  sea-woman  had  be- 
come as  foam  upon  the  waters.  Lindsay  was  soon  soothed 
and  cheered  by  the  comfort  of  the  many  pretty  things  that, 
in  spite  of  the  prudish  bedroom  fashions  of  the  time,  Morgan 
wore  about  her.  But  the  mother  could  never  drive  out  of  her 
head  the  words  that  seemed  to  speak  her  own  doom — "If  you 
do  not  win  the  Prince's  love,  so  that  he  forgets  father  and 
mother  for  your  sake,  and  tells  the  priest  to  join  your  hands, 
you  will  not  receive  an  immortal  soul.  On  the  first  morning 
your  heart  will  break  and  you  will  become  foam  upon  the 
water." 

§13 

Morgan  lived  through  the  next  few  hours  on  that  buried 
rock  of  self-control  which  is  under  the  sand  of  almost  every 
woman's  weakness,  and  which  she  seldom  reaches  till  the  hour 
of  her  most  desperate  need — it  is  the  bedrock,  the  bottom,  far 
closer  to  despair  than  any  ravings  or  yieldings. 

Her  thoughts  held  up  a  mirror  to  the  future,  in  which  she 
saw  her  failure  stretch  into  the  years.  Sometimes  it  was  proud 
and  acknowledged,  sometimes  it  was  shamed  with  disguise — 


192  TAMARISK  TOWN 

she  saw  herself  hiding  her  head  in  the  shallows  of  Monypenny's 
love  as  an  ostrich  in  the  sand.  Sometimes  her  heart  cried  out 
— "Let  him  come  back,  let  me  take  from  him  thankfully  all 
that  he  can  spare  from  Marlingate — let  him  give  me  his  ghost." 
But  the  next  minute  she  would  see  that  not  even  that  com- 
promise could  live.  If  she  had  played  merely  for  the  casual 
love  that  a  man  often  gives  a  woman,  a  frolic  away  from  his 
real  interests,  then  she  might  have  won  her  game.  But  she 
had  played  for  the  man  himself,  and  had  lost  him.  She  would 
not  have  the  town's  leavings,  she  would  be  unable  to  hide  her 
disdain,  and  her  hatred  of  what  he  loved  would  divide  them 
surely.  They  would  have  to  part,  either  with  a  clean  cut  now, 
or  later  with  much  slow  tearing.  .  .  . 

She  ate  her  breakfast,  because  it  might  have  roused  talk  to 
leave  food  on  the  plates.  She  gave  orders  to  the  cook  about 
the  dinner,  and  stood  patiently  while  her  maid  fitted  on  a 
casaque  that  she  was  making.  Little  Wells,  the  governess, 
would  have  flung  herself  down  on  the  bed  and  torn  her  frills 
and  sobbed  and  found  a  relief  that  Mrs.  Hugo  Becket  could 
not  win.  She  felt  the  storm  of  her  grief  hanging  behind  her 
eyes  like  thunder,  and  her  head  ached,  and  ached,  but  when 
Henderson  asked  after  the  headache  she  said  that  it  had  gone. 

At  a  few  minutes  to  eleven  she  was  ready  to  go  out,  but 
hung  about  the  drawing-room  till  she  realised  that  she  was 
hanging  about  for  Monypenny,  and  made  up  her  mind  to  leave 
the  house  at  once.  One  or  two  genteel  residents  in  the  Coney 
Banks  remembered  afterwards  how  they  had  seen  Mrs.  Hugo 
Becket  leave  her  house  at  about  eleven  o'clock,  wearing  an  ele- 
gant gown  of  Arabian  silk,  and  a  little  bonnet  trimmed  with  an 
owlet  sitting  close  to  her  soft,  hanging  curls. 

It  was  a  fine  November  day,  a  little  muddled  and  tattered, 
but  warm  for  the  time  of  year.  The  colours  of  dead  woods 
were  in  the  sky,  soft  greys  and  browns  smoking  against  the 
blue.  In  the  hollow  at  the  foot  of  the  Coney  Banks  the  reds 
of  Marlingate  were  rubbed  out  in  the  thick  air.  As  last  night 


THE  BETRAYAL  193 

it  had  mirrored  the  sky  with  its  lamps,  so  today  it  borrowed 
the  sky's  colours  of  withered  leaves — all  soft  greys  and 
browns — it  smoked  against  the  sea,  which  wore  the  wan  trem- 
ulous blue  of  the  wider  spreads  of  heaven.  It  almost  seemed 
as  if  Tamarisk  Town  had  no  definite  life  of  its  own,  but  must 
draw  its  life  as  it  drew  its  lights  and  colours  from  the  greater 
things  around  it.  It  was  a  ghost,  a  reflection,  and  Morgan 
clanking  down  into  it  between  the  tall,  narrow  houses  of  the 
Coney  Banks  was  the  only  real  thing  in  its  trickery  of  mists 
and  bubbles.  She  felt  her  life  and  love  reaching  out  beyond 
it,  calling  her  lover  to  come  out  of  it  to  the  only  real  thing  in 
his  world  of  dreams.  Yet  she  knew  that  he  would  not  hear — 
the  spell  of  its  illusions  had  proved  stronger  than  the  spell  of 
her  flesh  and  blood.  It  held  him  now  and  would  not  let  him 
go  till  it  had  picked  his  bones.  Her  own  heels  clanking  down 
the  passage  between  the  houses  made  her  think  of  his,  last 
night,  that  echoing  tramp  which  was  her  last  memory  of  him. 
She  came  into  the  High  Street  where  a  feeble  sunshine  lay, 
and  went  to  several  shops,  giving  orders  for  food  and  house* 
hold  needs,  with  some  special  delicacies  for  Becket's  meal  that 
night.  She  also  bought  a  book  for  little  Lindsay,  to  comfort 
that  victim  of  fairy-tale  tragedies — "The  Nursery  Keepsake," 
which,  with  its  gaily-coloured  illustrations,  and  artless  happy 
tales  of  Lucy  and  her  mamma  at  the  seaside  and  little  Ellen  at 
the  farm,  would  not  be  likely  to  make  her  cry.  She  took  this 
with  her,  meaning  to  give  it  to  the  child  on  her  return,  but 
she  did  not  want  to  go  back  just  yet.  She  was  not  expecting 
Becket  till  nearly  one,  if  indeed  he  had  time  to  call  at  the  Coney 
Banks  before  going  to  the  Maidenhood,  and  she  could  not  bear 
the  thought  of  stuffy  loitering  in  the  house.  She  wanted  to 
walk,  to  make  herself  tired,  so  that  her  aching  limbs  might  per- 
haps bind  down  her  spirit  to  their  needs.  She  walked  up  and 
down  the  High  Street,  then  through  the  Petty  Passage  Way 
into  Fish  Street,  under  Harpsichord  House,  and  through  Zur- 
iel  Place  into  the  High  Street  again.  She  was  tired  but  not 


194  TAMARISK  TOWN 

tired  enough,  and  her  spirit  had  found  a  way  of  ignoring  her 
limbs  and  pursuing  its  aching  quest  in  spite  of  them.  Also 
she  was  conscious  of  a  queer  sense  of  stifling  and  oppression. 
Up  on  the  Coney  Banks,  looking  down  on  Marlingate,  she  had 
felt  the  only  real  thing  in  all  that  landscape  of  mists  and  clouds 
and  stifling  colours,  but  now  she  felt,  reversely,  that  she  was 
the  only  unreal  thing  in  these  solid  streets,  a  little  hunted, 
driven  wisp  of  a  dream,  a  puff  of  faery  disintegrating  slowly 
among  the  solid  walls  and  solid  smells  and  solid  noises  of  the 
town. 

She  blew  along  the  Marine  Parade  like  a  dead  leaf.  One 
or  two  Hurdicotts  and  Fulleyloves  saw  her  and  greeted  her, 
and  Lady  Cockstreet  beckoned  to  her  from  her  chair,  but  Mor- 
gan did  not  stop.  She  passed  the  bandstand,  where  the  band 
was  playing  Meyerbeer's  "Dinorah,"  and  vanished  among  the 
black  wooden  towers  of  the  Stade.  She  felt  as  if  she  was  fight- 
ing the  town  for  her  life,  not  for  Monypenny  now,  but  for  her 
own  existence — if  she  did  not  get  out  of  it  quickly  it  would 
choke  her,  she  would  lie  dead  in  its  streets.  Or,  worse  still, 
dead  she  would  walk  up  and  down  it,  with  the  dead  Mony- 
penny by  her  side,  and  the  ghost  of  love  beside  them  in  the 
grave  of  love.  .  .  . 

She  held  her  handkerchief  up  to  her  mouth  as  she  walked 
through  the  Stade.  Her  grief  seemed  to  be  splintering  down 
into  the  rock  of  her  self-control,  and  with  it  was  a  strange  kind 
of  fright,  a  fear  of  her  own  loneliness;  she  felt  herself  begin- 
ning to  sob  with  fear,  and  pressed  her  handkerchief  against 
her  lips — her  eyes  were  dry  enough.  Luckily  she  was  walking 
through  the  Stade  where  men  had  other  business  than  to  no- 
tice this  stray  of  western  gentility  adrift  among  them.  Old  Gal- 
lop sat  against  the  black  tar-bubbled  wall  of  his  son's  store, 
and  smoked  his  pipe  while  Phineas  mended  a  net  beside  him. 
Others  of  his  sons  and  sons-in-law,  with  uncles  and  cousins  and 
the  more  scattered  kin  of  that  community,  worked  round  the 
snubbed  craft  upon  the  beach,  pitched  and  tarred  and  turpen- 


THE  BETRAYAL  195 

tined  their  bulging  seams,  or  mended  their  tawny  sails  with 
beer-brown  patches.  Only  one  or  two  afterwards  remembered 
having  seen  a  woman  in  a  crimson  dress  climb  the  flight  at 
the  end  of  the  Stade  known  as  Tamarisk  Steps,  and  pass  out 
from  the  roofs  and  chimneys  of  the  fishing  quarter  to  the  free 
slope  of  All  Holland  Hill.  The  Hill  was  covered  with  bracken, 
dying  down  the  scale  of  yellows  into  rust.  The  crimson  patch 
seemed  sometimes  just  a  part  of  the  hillside  Autumn,  a  knot  of 
colour  where  so  many  threads  were  tangled ;  but  more  than  one 
man  at  the  Stade  had  seen  it  move,  rest,  shift,  climb  upwards, 
and  at  last  disappear  over  the  top  of  the  hill. 

§  M 

Morgan  felt  that  she  had  escaped,  and  her  sense  of  fear 
abated,  but  she  was  weak  and  quivering  from  the  effort.  She 
sat  down  to  rest  by  a  clump  of  gorse,  faintly  sprinkled  with  a 
dying  gold.  The  town  was  out  of  sight,  and  round  her  lay  the 
high  downs  of  All  Holland  Hill,  breaking  off  raggedly  against 
the  sea,  three  hundred  feet  below,  and  today  not  so  much  a 
spread  of  water  as  a  spread  of  misty  light. 

For  a  time  she  sat  still,  panting  gently,  while  a  siren  crooned 
far  out  among  the  webs  of  light  that  wove  together  sea  and  sky. 
Then  her  thoughts  began  again  to  torment  her.  They  showed 
her  Marlingate  waiting  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  for  her  return — 
her  escape  was  only  the  little  tortured  run  that  a  cat  allows  a 
mouse.  She  would  have  to  go  back  and  choke  in  its  streets; 
she  would  have  to  take  up  again  her  burden  of  fear  and  fail- 
ure, and  watch  Monypenny's  love  fade  slowly  through  com- 
promise into  death.  If  only  she  had  the  strength  to  send  him 
away  .  .  .  but  she  was  too  weak,  and  too  loving  to  deny 
him  the  little  of  her  that  he  wanted. 

She  scrambled  to  her  feet  and  hurried  on.  She  had  a  mad 
thought  of  going  too  far  to  come  back,  of  stumbling  and  tear- 
ing her  way  over  the  Gringer  and  Stussels  and  Marrowbone  till 


196  TAMARISK  TOWN 

the  darkness  came  down  on  her  at  Cliff  End.  But  she  knew 
that  such  thoughts  were  only  a  cheat  of  comfort.  She  had 
gone  too  far  in  the  ways  of  order  and  decorum  to  be  able,  in 
her  hour  of  need,  to  find  refuge  in  the  old  freedoms.  For  the 
love  of  Monypenny  she  had  sold  herself  into  bondage,  and 
now  that  he  was  lost  her  shackles  remained — she  could  never 
strike  them  off.  Every  minute  she  realised  more  acutely  the 
significance  of  her  defeat.  She  had  lost  not  only  Monypenny 
but  herself — she  had  played  for  a  bigger  stake  than  she  had 
known. 

"Remember  when  you  have  once  received  a  human  form, 
you  can  never  be  a  sea-woman  again,  and  if  you  do  not  win 
the  Prince's  love,  you  will  not  receive  an  immortal  soul.  Your 
heart  will  break  and  you  will  become  foam  upon  the  water." 

For  the  love  of  her  Prince  she  had  forced  herself  into  strange 
ways,  forsaking  her  own.  She  had  renounced  her  own  nature, 
but  he  had  not  given  her  his,  so  she  was  indeed  for  his  sake 
without  her  soul,  a  weak,  helpless,  drifting  thing,  foam  upon 
the  water.  If  she  could  have  won  him  from  his  town  to  at- 
tach himself  to  her  heart  and  soul  then  she  would  have  truly 
become  his  and  in  his  life  would  have  found  her  own.  But  his 
love  had  not  been  strong  enough  to  give  her  an  immortal  soul, 
and  now  her  heart  must  break. 

She  had  reached  by  a  drifting,  aimless  path  the  eastern  slope 
of  All  Holland  Hill.  At  her  feet  lay  the  Slide,  with  the  Gringer 
rising  bluff  beyond  it.  Everything  was  very  quiet;  the  thick 
November  breeze  scarcely  stroked  the  bracken  on  the  two  hill- 
sides, or  stirred  the  hazy  water  at  the  foot  of  the  cliffs.  There 
was  a  sweetness  of  damp  and  withering  fern,  of  the  few  black- 
berries that  still  hung  with  red  leaves  on  the  brambles,  of  moist 
earth,  of  rain-pools  stagnant  among  fallen  leaves,  of  spindrift 
caking  on  the  cliffs,  or  thickening  into  the  dense,  stirless  air. 
There  was  no  sound,  except  every  now  and  then  a  long  sigh 
from  the  Channel,  ebbing  slowly  from  the  foot  of  the  Gringer. 


THE  BETRAYAL  197 

Far  out  to  sea  the  water  smudged  into  the  sky  through  a  mist 
of  bluish  grey,  rifted  and  dazzled  with  spills  of  light. 

Morgan  sat  down  again,  for  her  anguish  had  made  her  weak. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  suffering  of  the  last  twelve  hours  had  been 
cumulative,  swelling  slowly  from  the  disillusion  of  last  night 
to  this  moment  of  despair.  She  sat  quite  still,  her  hands  hang- 
ing between  her  knees,  her  shopping-bag  and  Lindsay's  book 
beside  her  on  the  grass.  Still  a  decorous  figure  enough,  she 
sat  there  for  nearly  half  an  hour,  unconscious  of  time  and  con- 
vention, both  calling  her  back  to  Marlingate — lost  in  the  sad- 
ness of  her  own  heart  and  of  the  Autumn  that  ate  like  rust 
into  the  hill. 

But  all  the  time  her  mind  must  have  been  working  uncon- 
sciously through  its  stupor,  for  after  a  while  her  shoulders  be- 
gan to  shake,  and  she  sobbed  brokenly  with  rebellion  and  grief. 
Hitherto  she  had  not  rebelled,  she  had  been  dumb  and  stricken, 
scarcely  understanding  all  the  hardness  of  her  fate,  but  now 
her  whole  being  flamed  up  and  protested  in  great  sobs  without 
tears. 

Then  suddenly,  as  if  revolt  had  cleared  away  the  mists,  she 
saw  a  way  of  escape.  It  was  so  clear  and  straight  that  she 
wondered  she  had  never  seen  it  before.  There  was  a  way  out 
of  Marlingate  for  both  her  and  Monypenny.  She  could  save 
him  in  spite  of  himself,  and  at  this  last  moment  snatch  the  vic- 
tory from  the  town.  She  sat  up  among  the  fern,  her  hands 
clenched,  her  head  thrown  back,  a  smile  shining  under  the  lids 
of  her  long  eyes.  Her  lips  parted  and  the  same  smile  shone  be- 
tween them,  as  if  a  light  had  been  kindled.  It  was  thus  that 
she  had  so  often  invited  her  lover,  and  now  she  seemed  almost 
to  feel  his  mouth  on  hers  again.  Before  long  she  would  feel 
it,  and  the  burden  of  him  against  her  breast,  clinging  to  her  as 
the  only  thing  he  had  left  in  all  his  shattered  world. 

No  doubt  he  would  spurn  her  at  first,  and  rage  at  her,  but 
she  could  bear  it,  knowing  what  must  come  in  the  end.  For 
she  would  be  all  he  had  left — when  the  town  he  loved  had 


198  TAMARISK  TOWN 

cast  him  out  like  Cain,  when  she  had  told  her  husband  of  her 
long  unfaithfulness,  and  with  evidence  from  the  Crown  at 
Brenzett,  won  her  divorce,  and  put  herself  and  him  together 
outside  Marlingate's  respectability.  Marlingate  would  turn  on 
the  man  that  had  made  it,  the  clay  would  deny  the  potter — 
broken  and  naked  he  would  have  nowhere  to  turn  but  to  her 
breast. 

She  jumped  to  her  feet,  shaking  the  crumbled  fronds  of 
bracken  from  her  gown.  She  started  running  up  the  hillside, 
breathing  in  gasps,  while  her  eyes  blazed  with  triumph.  In  a 
few  minutes  she  would  be  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  looking  down 
at  a  town  she  no  longer  dreaded.  She  laughed  to  herself,  al- 
most picturing  its  discomfiture,  as  if  it  was  a  living  thing.  Any- 
how, it  had  not  got  her  man — her  wit  had  cheated  it  of  him  at 
the  last  moment.  True,  she  would  recover  him  almost  a  corpse, 
but  she  had  life  for  both  and  would  give  it  to  him  abundantly. 
Besides,  his  misery  and  helplessness  would  make  him  doubly 
precious  to  her  heart — she  would  love  him  with  double  meas- 
ure when  she  had  him  shorn  of  the  greatness  which  had  been  at 
once  her  dread  and  her  contempt.  He  had  always  been  liable 
to  freeze  her  suddenly — her  lover  in  her  arms  had  sometimes 
turned,  appallingly,  into  the  Mayor  of  Marlingate — but  now 
their  love  would  grow  warm  and  wild  and  innocent  in  its  new 
freedom  from  civic  frights. 

She  had  not  enough  breath  to  take  her  to  the  top  of  the  hill. 
Exhausted  with  emotion  and  with  her  long  tramp  over  broken 
ground  she  soon  had  to  stop  to  rest.  Her  head  was  spinning 
a  little  as  she  stood  and  panted  with  her  hands  under  her 
breast.  The  owlet  was  askew  on  her  hair,  and  one  or  two  of 
the  hanging  curls  were  draggled  against  her  neck.  She  stood 
looking  back  into  the  valley  of  the  Slide,  where  the  skew-blown 
trees  were  now  tawny  above  the  wan  yellows  that  clumped  be- 
side the  stream. 

Her  mind  went  back  to  the  day  very  long  ago  when  she  and 
Monypenny  had  met  down  there  at  the  roots  of  the  Gringer. 


THE  BETRAYAL  199 

At  first  a  little  thorn  of  hate  went  into  her  heart  when  she  re- 
membered all  he  had  made  her  suffer.  But  the  next  moment 
she  seemed  to  see  him  sitting  beside  her  under  the  dwarfed 
trees — she  remembered  how  he  had  cried.  Tears  rose  in  her 
own  eyes  at  the  memory,  and  suddenly  her  victory  did  not  seem 
so  precious.  He  had  been  very  helpless  and  very  young  in 
spite  of  all  his  municipal  swagger.  He  had  cried  like  a  boy,  be- 
cause his  heart  had  been  torn  in  two  with  a  divided  love.  He 
had  loved  her  a  little  and  Marlingate  very  much — "Morgan, 
you  don't  understand  what  this  town  means  to  me." 

For  the  first  time  she  saw  Monypenny's  love  for  his  town  as 
a  real  thing,  a  love  with  roots  as  deep  in  reason  as  her  own.  He 
had  said  those  words  to  her  twice  before — once  at  the  Slide  and 
once  in  Harold's  Plat — and  each  time  she  had  brushed  them 
aside  with  a  fond  contempt,  tenderly  ignoring  with  a  selfish- 
ness possible  only  to  love  the  eldest  and  hungriest  half  of  the 
man  whose  whole  being  she  might  have  possessed.  He  had 
been  right — she  had  not  understood,  when  her  understanding 
would  have  saved  them  both — but  it  was  her  fate  to  under- 
stand now  when  to  understand  was  to  close  her  one  way  of  es- 
cape. 

It  was  a  curious  feeling — this  sudden  realisation  of  what  for 
years  she  had  been  content  to  ignore — and  at  first  she  did  not 
grasp  all  that  it  involved  of  sacrifice.  She  stood  looking  down 
towards  the  Slide,  where  the  wan  sunlight  gleamed  on  the 
crooked  trees,  and  sighs  crept  up  from  the  water  below.  Her 
breast  laboured  less  heavily,  and  the  flush  passed  from  her 
cheeks,  but  she  did  not  move,  and  after  a  time  she  knew  that 
she  could  not — the  way  was  closed. 

For  the  first  time  she  seemed  to  see  deep  down  into 
her  lover's  heart,  and  her  own  heart  melted.  The  more  she  un- 
derstood this  love  he  had  apart  from  her  the  more  her  own 
love  grew.  She  knew  now  that  she  could  never  carry  out  her 
plan — she  could  no  more  maim  his  spirit  in  order  to  win  him 
than  she  could  maim  his  body,  blind  or  wound  him  so  that  she 


200  TAMARISK  TOWN 

could  take  advantage  of  his  helplessness.  For  her  love  had 
undergone  a  sea-change.  She  did  not  love  him  as  she  had  loved 
him  long  ago,  when  he  had  been  set  above  her  and  she  had 
sworn  to  have  him,  the  great  man  of  Marlingate,  the  Alder- 
man, the  Mayor,  the  town's  father.  She  did  not  love  him  as 
she  had  loved  him  in  the  year  of  possession,  with  all  her  wo- 
man's greed  for  his  manhood.  She  did  not  love  him  for  what 
he  promised  or  for  what  he  gave,  but  just  for  himself,  the  man 
Edward  Monypenny,  the  creature  helpless  and  sorrowful  as 
herself,  the  human  being  which  her  love  had  created  but  could 
not  sustain.  She  felt  her  love  and  passion  rising  in  her  heart 
like  tears,  and  as  tears  they  streamed  from  her  eyes.  Crouch- 
ing down  in  the  rust-cored  bracken  she  sobbed  again,  but  this 
time  without  dryness.  She  sobbed  for  Monypenny  because 
she  had  nearly  ruined  him,  and  for  herself  because  she  must 
lose  him.  But  she  would  rather  lose  him  than  maim  him  as 
she  had  planned. 

He  wanted  Marlingate,  so  he  should  have  it.  She  would  not 
stand  in  his  way  any  more.  He  had  loved  her,  and  found  his 
youth  and  his  manhood  in  her,  but  now  her  love  had  become  a 
snare  to  him,  and  in  a  little  while  it  would  become  a  sorrow. 
She  would  not  let  that  happen — she  would  stand  aside,  and 
spare  him  the  torments  of  a  divided  allegiance.  She  would 
leave  him  to  serve  his  town  with  all  the  new  strength  that  she 
had  given  him.  She  loved  him  so  much  that  his  happiness  was 
what  she  most  desired  in  the  world,  even  if  he  fulfilled  it  in 
ways  apart  from  her. 

But  where  could  she  go? 

There  was  only  one  answer.  As  long  as  she  lived  her  life 
would  be  his  snare  and  her  torment.  Besides,  whether  he  went 
in  cursing  or  in  blessing,  she  could  not  live  without  him,  for 
she  had  no  life  apart  from  him,  having  renounced  her  own 
ways  for  his  sake.  Only  her  death  could  set  them  both  free. 
This  was  the  way  of  escape — the  only  way.  Her  being  had  ex- 
hausted and  torn  itself  in  bringing  to  this  painful  birth  its  first 


THE  BETRAYAL  201 

unselfish  emotion,  and  she  longed  for  rest  ...  as  foam  upon 
the  water.  .  .  . 

She  stood  looking  down  into  the  cool  grey  reaches  of  the  sea, 
hazy  and  still  at  the  foot  of  the  Gringer.  Close  under  the  cliff 
brown  rocks  broke  the  water  into  pools  where  the  foam  lay  in 
long  white  lathers.  There  were  no  waves,  only  now  and  then 
a  motion  that  seemed  a  heave  of  the  whole  surface  against  the 
cliff,  a  peaceful  swell,  out  of  which  dragged  a  long  sigh,  hush- 
ing slowly  down  into  quietness,  as  the  mass  ebbed  from  the 
cliff,  and  fell  back  into  those  deep  green  pools  with  their  rims 
of  lathered  foam. 

This  could  be  her  release,  and  she  could  fulfil  here  the  des- 
tiny which  now  seemed  no  longer  a  threat  but  a  promise.  "As 
foam  upon  the  water,"  she  could  escape  for  ever  from  the 
streets  where  her  feet  had  bled.  Her  death  would  bring  no 
real  grief  to  anyone  on  earth.  Her  baby  would  forget  her,  her 
husband  would  find  comfort  in  sentimental  orgies  of  memory, 
and  the  man  for  whom  she  died  would  be  set  free  from  the  tan- 
gle her  love  had  coiled  round  him. 

Her  heart  was  quite  melted  now,  and  the  tears  splashed  over 
her  cheeks  as  she  climbed  down  the  slope  of  All  Holland  Hill 
to  the  cliff  edge.  She  looked  over — it  was  far  to  fall,  but  that, 
she  knew,  would  only  make  the  end  more  sure  and  more  merci- 
ful. A  rickety  fence  leaned  this  way  and  that  along  the  edge. 
In  places  the  ground  had  crumbled  away  under  it,  and  it  hung 
over  the  void.  Morgan  climbed  through  the  pales,  and  stood 
on  the  narrow  rim  of  turf  that  in  places  hung  right  over  the 
cliff.  It  would  be  easy  to  do — the  ground  would  probably 
give  way  under  her  before  she  had  to  force  herself  over.  It  was 
strange  that  she  should  still  hesitate,  but  something  within  her 
made  her  shrink  from  dashing  herself  to  pieces  on  the  rocks. 
She  wanted  to  die,  yet  she  wished  she  could  have  found  an 
easier  way. 

Shutting  her  eyes,  she  took  a  few  quick  steps  towards  the 
edge.  Then  she  remembered  Lindsay's  "Keepsake,"  which  she 


202  TAMARISK  TOWN 

still  carried,  and,  taking  it  back  to  the  fence,  put  it  carefully 
beside  her  shopping-bag.  Then  she  shut  her  eyes  again,  and 
went  forward. 

The  hazy  noon  drowsed  on.  The  stillness  seemed  to  mend 
its  torn  edges  over  the  cry  that  had  risen  sudden,  frantic,  and 
despairing  from  the  cliff.  For  some  time  there  was  a  dribble 
of  loosened  sandstone,  shaken  out  by  the  larger  fall  from  the 
edge,  when  all  the  green  lip  that  for  several  weeks  had  hung 
from  the  fence  suddenly  broke  into  turf  and  sods  and  shud- 
dered down  into  the  pools  at  the  foot  of  the  Slide.  Long  rip- 
ples stroked  across  the  pools,  and  the  water  thickened  with 
pulping  earth,  then  slowly  cleared  and  calmed.  But  in  one  of 
the  pools,  half  under  the  water,  half  trailing  on  the  rock,  lay 
something  which  from  the  top  of  the  cliff  looked  like  a  dead, 
crimson  leaf. 

§  i5 

The  Mayoral  dinner  was  at  two,  an  hour  which  was  a  com- 
promise with  fashion,  convenience,  and  appetite.  The  big  din- 
ing-room at  the  Maidenhood  looked  very  much  the  same  as  it 
had  looked  on  the  far  back  occasion  when  Alderman  Mony- 
penny  had  first  laid  down  the  programme  of  Marlingate's  great- 
ness— the  brown  and  white  nets  still  hung  upon  the  walls,  with 
the  stuffed  tunny  fish.  The  tables  were  laid  with  perhaps  a 
little  more  elegance — there  were  flowers  and  silver  and  glass, 
where  before  there  had  been  earthenware  mugs  and  jugs.  This 
new  elegance  had  also  spread  to  the  company.  The  borough 
fathers  no  longer  looked  like  a  set  of  jolly  red-faced  trades- 
men sitting  down  to  gorge.  Even  Lewnes  and  Lusted  wore 
London  clothes,  and  when  the  meal  began  it  had  not  that  fine 
orchestral  sound  which  had  sometimes  reached  as  far  as  loafers 
at  the  window. 

Monypenny  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table.  He  did  not  wear 
his  Mayoral  robes,  for  the  atmosphere,  rich  as  ever  with  the 
fumes  of  bygone  beer  and  pipes,  did  not  favour  his  panoply  of 


THE  BETRAYAL  203 

fur  and  velvet.  His  long-tailed  black  coat  and  close-fitting 
grey  trousers  showed  off  his  tall,  graceful  figure — still  youth- 
fully slim  in  spite  of  the  looming  forties.  His  chain  of  office 
hung  upon  his  breast,  distinguishing  him,  if  any  added  distinc- 
tion were  needed,  from  his  Councillors  and  Aldermen.  At  his 
right  hand  sat  Pelham,  the  deputy  Mayor;  at  his  left  sat  the 
new  Councillor  Becket,  and  down  the  table  on  either  side 
gleamed  the  shirt-fronts  and  watch-chains  of  Breeds  and  Vid- 
ler,  Lewnes  and  Lusted,  Bond  of  the  Library,  Tom  Potter,  the 
Town  Clerk,  Councillors  Luck  and  Putland  and  Dunk  and 
Robert  Pelham,  Councillor  Raymond  Hurdicott  (elegant  re- 
turn of  St.  Nicholas'  Ward),  the  Rev.  Somerville  Hunt  and  his 
Puseyite  curate — all  the  Marlingate  worthies,  new  and  old,  as- 
sembled to  do  honour  to  their  town  and  their  stomachs. 

During  the  first  courses  there  was  little  conversation. 
Becket  made  one  or  two  remarks  to  Monypenny  without  much 
encouragement — he  had  had  a  poor  dinner  with  the  Clothwork- 
ers,  and  he  wondered  who  had  chosen  their  wine — he  wondered 
where  his  wife  had  gone,  as  she  was  not  in  when  he  called  at 
the  Coney  Banks  on  his  way  from  the  station — had  Mony- 
penny enjoyed  his  dinner  with  her  last  night? — he  hoped  she 
had  given  him  better  mutton  than  the  Clothworkers  had  given 
her  husband. 

Monypenny  scarcely  listened  to  his  babblings.  He  felt 
happy  and  abstracted — it  seemed  as  if  his  life,  after  much 
rocking,  had  established  itself  again,  and  he  was  able  to 
dream  and  brood  over  matters  which  for  a  nightmare  interval 
had  been  the  mere  dust  of  routine.  The  glamour  of  his  office 
had  come  back,  and  with  it  a  new  zest,  a  heat  of  emotion,  as  if 
some  of  the  sweetness  of  his  love  for  Morgan  had  been  blown 
into  the  tracks  of  the  town's  business.  That  emotional,  pas- 
sionate quality  which  had  hung  yesterday  over  the  Marine 
Gardens  and  Aquarium  hung  today  over  the  long  saloon  of  the 
Maidenhood  and  all  the  common  food  and  common  company. 
His  mind  was  aflame,  and  sported  with  its  satisfaction.  As  he 


204  TAMARISK  TOWN 

ate  and  drank  he  found  the  crippled  poet  in  him  at  work,  with 
strivings  which  formerly  only  Morgan  could  have  called  forth. 

"At  the  Maidenhood  House  were  the  fathers  assembled, 
The  fathers  of  Marlingate,  Queen  of  the  sea  .  .  ." 

He  found  it  running  out  as  his  verse  had  once  run  out  on 
lame  feet  to  Morgan,  stumbling  among  thoughts  too  fiery  to  ex- 
press; and  this  time  it  lacked  that  quality  of  sadness  which  had 
bewildered  him  before.  It  would  seem  as  if  his  relations  with 
the  town  were  all  happy,  and  he  could  hardly  bear  to  think 
how  nearly  he  had  sacrificed  them  for  that  which  had  never 
been  without  its  undercurrent  of  pain.  The  danger  was  still 
there — he  remembered  Morgan  as  he  had  last  seen  her,  stand- 
ing by  the  hearth  like  a  blazing  Autumn  tree — but  now  he  saw 
her  in  her  proper  relation  to  Marlingate,  she  was  dwindling 
back  into  her  frame,  and  he  would  never  let  her  come  out  again 
to  work  her  magic  in  the  woods.  He  told  himself  that  he  would 
be  able  to  go  back  to  his  old  ways  with  her,  that  this  sudden 
flaring  up  of  their  two  hearts  was  only  an  accident,  an  inter- 
lude, as  had  been  that  sudden  parching  of  his  municipal  life. 
Yet  he  could  not  quite  shake  off  the  stifling  sense  of  danger — 
he  knew  that  her  love  must  henceforward  always  hold  a  threat. 

The  meal  was  more  elaborate  than  in  the  old  days.  It  be- 
gan with  turtle  soup  like  any  Guildhall  banquet,  then  individ- 
ualised itself  with  the  fish.  Tom  Tutt  and  his  son  and  his 
waiter  came  staggering  in  together  with  an  enormous  Robin 
Huss  pie.  Robin  Huss  was  to  Marlingate  as  the  lion  to  Brit- 
ain or  the  cock  to  France,  a  patriotic  emblem.  This  symbol- 
ism had  rescued  him  from  the  looming  accusation  of  vulgarity 
under  which  he  would  probably  soon  have  vanished  from  the 
genteel  dinner-tables  of  the  town.  In  the  fishing  quarter  he 
fed  every  family  from  April  to  December — baked  or  sodden  or 
fried,  or  buried  in  pies  or  chopped  in  steaks  or  dried  in  long 
brown  strips — while  his  young  like  thick  white  eels  fed  the 


THE  BETRAYAL  205 

Fish  Street  cats  and  in  various  ages  of  decay  proved  an  inex- 
pensive substitute  for  eggs  at  Parliamentary  elections. 

The  Robin  Huss  pie  was  now  a  ceremonial  dish  at  Mayoral 
banquets,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  left  appetites  flabby  for 
the  baron  of  beef  and  the  apple  tart  that  had  still  to  come.  But 
a  good  will  brought  the  Corporation  also  through  these,  and 
the  cloth  was  removed  for  dessert. 

Just  as  Tom  and  Jo  Tutt  were  setting  the  decanters  on  the 
table,  Henry,  the  waiter,  came  in  with  a  note  for  Becket.  The 
merchant  read  it,  looked  surprised  and  alarmed  and  a  little  be- 
wildered, then  rose  and  pushed  back  his  chair. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mayor  and  gentlemen,  but  I  must  go  home. 
I've  been  sent  for." 

"I  hope  there's  nothing  wrong." 

"I  hope  not — but  I'm  afraid  there  must  be,  as  otherwise  no 
one  would  have  dreamed  of  calling  me  away  from  this  happy 
assembly.  My  baby — you  know  she's  been  ailing  .  .  .  and 
this  was  written  by  the  Nurse." 

"Is  Mrs.  Becket  at  home?" 

"She  can't  be  yet,  or  she  would  have  written  herself.  I 
hope  ..."  His  mottled  face  suddenly  went  pale,  and  he  hur- 
ried out  of  the  room. 

A  buzz  of  commiseration  and  conjecture  went  round  the  ta- 
ble. People  began  to  surmise,  and  Monypenny  felt  that  he 
must  at  all  costs  crush  their  surmisings.  He  stood  up  and  at 
once  began  his  speech  of  the  evening. 

"Mr.  Deputy  Mayor — Aldermen,  Councillors  of  Marlin- 
gate  .  .  ." 

For  some  twenty  minutes  his  voice,  rather  deeper  and  harsh- 
er than  usual,  kept  his  own  mind  and  the  Corporation's  off 
Becket's  disaster.  He  dared  not  let  himself  make  any  guesses 
at  what  had  so  suddenly  called  the  merchant  away,  and  he  felt 
something  intruding  and  sacrilegious  in  the  guesses  of  the  oth- 
ers. He  was  making  violent  efforts  at  self-reassurance.  After 
all  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  Becket's  summons  should 


206  TAMARISK  TOWN 

have  anything  to  do  with  Morgan;  it  was  far  more  likely  to 
concern  his  child. 

It  was  scarcely  to  be  wondered  at  that  this  undercurrent  of 
mental  strife  should  make  the  beginning  of  his  speech  a  lit- 
tle darker  and  more  rambling  than  was  usually  expected  from 
Monypenny,  but  gradually  he  pulled  himself  together  and  soon 
had  the  matter  going  straight.  He  gave,  as  was  expected  of 
him,  a  brief  review  of  the  town's  progress  during  the  past  year, 
laying  stress  on  the  opening  of  the  Aquarium  and  Marine  Gar- 
dens. He  then  spoke  of  the  future.  There  was  very  little  more 
that  could  be  done,  he  said,  in  the  way  of  enlarging  Marlin- 
gate.  The  bigger  strokes  of  the  town's  beauty  were  finished; 
all  that  remained  was  for  it  to  be  lovingly  stippled  into  per- 
fection. He  still  objected  to  the  idea  of  a  Pier — he  felt  that  it 
would  cheapen  Marlingate  and  dim  its  selectness — but  the 
Town  Committee  had  plans  before  them  for  the  development 
of  a  Winter  Garden,  where  the  band  could  play  in  the  after- 
noons during  the  cold  months.  He  mentioned  that  approaches 
had  been  made  to  him  and  other  landlords  by  a  London  firm  of 
contractors  to  purchase  building  sites  on  the  Coney  Banks  and 
Gingerbread  Green,  but  they  had  unanimously  decided — 
Monypenny  did  not  describe  the  process  by  which  his  nega- 
tive had  crushed  the  hankering  of  Lewnes — that  strangers  must 
not  come  into  their  midst  with  perhaps  alien  notions  of  what 
was  beautiful  and  suitable  to  Marlingate.  The  name  that 
would  always  be  associated  with  building  and  architecture  in 
the  town  was  Decimus  Figg.  He  wished  the  architect  was  with 
them  tonight  so  that  they  could  pay  him  publicly  the  honour 
that  was  his  due.  Beyond  expressing  his  regret  for  this,  and 
pointing  out  that  the  offer  of  the  London  contractors  showed 
how  the  fame  of  Marlingate  was  spreading,  he  had  nothing 
more  to  say.  So  he  would  end  his  remarks  by  proposing  ac- 
cording to  a  now  respectably  dated  custom,  Marlingate  as  the 
toast  of  its  Corporation.  "Gentlemen — Marlingate." 

The  toast  was  drunk,  Aldermen  and  Councillors  standing  up 


THE  BETRAYAL  207 

and  clinking  glasses.  The  company  was  back  in  its  seats  with 
its  pipes,  and  Pelham  had  risen  to  propose  the  health  of  the 
Mayor  when  Tom  Tutt  came  hurriedly  into  the  room  and 
whispered  something  to  Tom  Potter,  the  Town  Clerk.  Potter 
gave  an  exclamation  and  stood  up,  and  Pelham,  who  was  clear- 
ing his  throat  for  his  opening  period,  asked  what  was  the  mat- 
ter. 

"It's  news  come  from  Mrs.  Becket,  Sir — she's  been  found 
drowned." 

There  was  a  clatter  as  the  Mayor's  churchwarden  pipe  fell 
suddenly  and  broke  itself  on  the  table. 

"Mrs.  Becket — drowned — where?"  cried  Pelham. 

"That  must  have  been  why  Becket  was  sent  for,"  said 
Lewnes  wisely. 

"I  heard  it  from  one  of  the  coastguards  at  Marrowbone 
Gap,"  said  Tom  Tutt.  "Seemingly  they  found  her  two  hours 
ago.  The  fellow's  in  my  bar  now;  would  you  like  him  to  come 
in  here  and  tell  you  about  it,  gentlemen?" 

"No — no;  not  under  any  circumstances,"  said  Monypenny. 

"Dear  me,"  wailed  Pelham,  "what  a  terrible  thing — what  a 
dreadful  affliction  for  our  esteemed  Councillor!" 

"We  must  pray  for  him,"  said  the  Rev.  Somerville  Hunt. 

"And  for  her,"  said  his  Puseyite  curate. 

"And  a  fine  woman  she  was,  too,"  said  Lewnes. 

"Was  she  drowned  by  accident?"  asked  Lusted. 

Everybody  glared  at  him. 

"They  seemed  to  think  up  at  the  station  as  she'd  been  pick- 
ing leaves,"  said  Tom  Tutt — "there  was  a  bunch  of  something 
in  her  hand." 

"Maybe  she'd  grabbed  at  it  to  save  herself,  poor  woman," 
said  Vidler. 

Pelham  was  almost  in  tears. 

"Mr.  Mayor — Aldermen — and  Councillors — I  feel  after 
what  we  have  just  heard  that  we  cannot  continue  this  festiv- 
ity. One  of  our  number  has  been  sorely  stricken,  and  the  least 


208  TAMARISK  TOWN 

we  can  do  is  to  show  our  sympathy  by  disbanding  this  con- 
vivial assembly.  Your  worship,  have  I  your  permission  to  sug- 
gest that  the  proceedings  be  now  brought  to  a  close  and  that 
we  return  heavy-hearted  and  sorrowful  to  our  own  homes?" 

("After  having  each  one  of  us  separately  pumped  the  coast- 
guard in  the  bar,"  said  Raymond  Hurdicott  under  his  breath.) 

"Certainly,"  agreed  Monypenny,  standing  up.  During  all 
the  babble  he  had  sat  quite  still,  staring  at  his  broken  pipe.  In 
his  heart  was  an  emotion  which  made  his  cheeks  burn  with 
shame,  and  gave  a  peculiar  brightness  to  his  eyes  that  were 
usually  so  sad.  It  was  a  feeling  of  relief.  He  could  scarcely 
believe  it,  it  seemed  so  incredible,  yet  there  it  was.  The  news 
of  Morgan's  death  had  been  as  the  lifting  of  a  yoke  and  the  re- 
moval of  a  snare.  As  long  as  she  lived  she  would  have  stood 
between  him  and  Marlingate,  striving  to  keep  them  apart.  Her 
death  had  set  him  free  to  go  back  to  the  old  allegiance,  which 
he  felt  now  as  if  he  had  betrayed.  All  the  love  in  him  was 
now  free  to  be  poured  on  his  town.  A  fiery  exaltation  was 
upon  him — a  psychologist  or  a  doctor  would  have  attributed  it 
to  the  workings  of  a  shock  as  yet  scarcely  assimilated.  Yet 
his  heart  was  full  of  shame  and  remorse,  for  he,  alone  of  all 
the  company,  felt  sure  that  her  death  had  come  to  her  seeking. 
He  remembered  her  as  he  had  last  seen  her,  in  her  pride  and 
despair.  He  might  have  known  that  she  was  not  for  compro- 
mise. If  he  had  known,  perhaps  he  would  have  gone  back  .  .  . 
was  he  glad  that  he  had  not  known?  .  .  . 

His  tongue  faltered  with  his  emotions,  giving  the  right  im- 
pression of  grief.  Pelham  whispered  loudly  in  his  ear  that  he 
should  propose  a  vote  of  sympathy  with  Becket,  and  he  did  so, 
scarcely  realising  what  he  said,  but  seeing  it  carried  with 
groans  and  sighs  and  much  shaking  of  heads. 

Then  the  company  melted  away,  and  Monypenny  found 
himself  walking  up  the  High  Street  alone. 

The  sun  was  still  on  the  pavements,  gleaming  down  from 
a  great  arch  of  mackerel  sky  that  spread  from  hill  to  hill.  A 


THE  BETRAYAL  209 

faint  rose  fanned  into  it  from  behind  Spitalman's  Down,  but 
there  was  still  a  thick,  tempered  heat  in  the  rays  that  struck 
back  from  pavements  and  doorsteps,  and  baked  on  the  old 
tiles.  The  smells  of  lath  and  brick  crept  out  of  the  warmth 
and  mixed  with  the  salt  smell  of  the  sea.  Here  and  there  a 
yellow  tree  pushed  its  boughs  between  two  houses,  over  some 
garden  wall,  and  strawed  the  pavement  with  shrivelling  leaves 
that  sent  out  a  dim  perfume  of  dying  woods  into  the  solid  bor- 
ough smell  of  bricks  and  mortar. 


PART  II 
THE  DESTROYER 


CHAPTER  I 
GUARDIAN  AND  GUIDE 


THE  next  morning  Monypenny  awoke  with  a  curiously 
blank  mind.  It  was  like  an  empty  slate,  and  he  proceeded  to 
write  Park  Terrace  all  over  it.  He  saw  that  now  he  was  free 
to  build  Park  Terrace,  and  while  he  shaved  and  dressed  he 
pictured  its  bricked  frontage  glowing  to  the  South,  its  gleam 
of  white  parapets  and  porches,  its  wide  semi-circular  fling  of 
steps  shelving  gravely  to  the  decent  road.  From  Park  Ter- 
race he  passed  back  to  an  old  plan,  temporarily  put  aside,  and 
toyed  with  the  idea  of  a  municipal  parterre  of  streets  named 
after  his  Town  Council.  Pelham  Square  should  finish  Becket 
Grove,  and  hooked  to  its  corners  four  new  roads  or  "Places" 
should  be  the  immortality  of  Bond  and  Lusted,  Breeds  and 
Vidler  —  Lewnes  already  had  his  memorial  in  the  road  that 
linked  Becket  Grove  with  Rye  Lane. 

All  day  long  he  turned  over  this  idea;  by  evening  he  was 
clinging  to  it,  for  he  knew  by  this  time  the  thoughts  that  were 
gathering  under  the  steady  surface  of  his  mind.  As  the  pa- 
ralysis of  shock  wore  from  his  emotions,  they  began  to  take  on 
various  tortured  activities,  which  he  fought  with  his  plans  for 
Marlingate  and  with  that  strange  feeling  of  relief  and  freedom 
which  still  survived,  though  it  was  no  longer  dominant.  The 
town  reeked  of  yesterday's  tragedy  —  it  was  discussed  in  every 
bar  and  shop  and  drawing-room.  Morgan's  name  came  to 
Monypenny  from  under  women's  parasols,  from  behind  coun- 
ters, and  over  teacups  —  it  blew  down  the  Parade,  and  the 

213 


214  TAMARISK  TOWN 

Municipal  band  could  talk  of  nothing  else  during  its  mid-day 
interval;  the  matter  was  even  discussed  on  the  Stade,  Phineas 
Gallop  declaring  he  had  seen  Mrs.  Becket  go  through  to  Tam- 
arisk Steps,  and  wishing  under  the  circumstances  that  he  had 
noticed  her  more  particularly. 

Monypenny  saw  nothing  of  Becket.  He  had  helped  in  the 
drawing  up  of  a  formal  expression  of  sympathy  from  the 
Mayor  and  Corporation,  but  he  had  found  himself  totally  un- 
able to  write  any  personal  letter  of  condolence.  He  spent  his 
time  wandering  over  the  site  of  his  prospective  building,  a  lit- 
tle forlorn  in  the  damp  November  flutter  of  the  wood,  and 
urgently  scribbling  down  his  ideas  and  plans  on  paper.  The 
evenings  he  gave  up  to  formal  copying,  and  writing  to  Figg. 
Sometimes  he  would  experience  queer  little  gusts  of  anger  be- 
cause the  catastrophe  did  not  affect  him  more.  He  would  have 
felt  in  better  conceit  with  himself  if  his  heart  had  been  wrung 
with  agonised  and  noble  throes,  if  he  had  suffered  what  his 
sense  of  poetry  and  decency  told  him  he  ought  to  suffer,  in- 
stead of  just  this  restless  dream  spun  over  a  blank. 

The  inquest  took  place  on  the  third  day,  and  the  jury 
brought  in  a  verdict  of  "accidental  death."  The  Coroner,  a 
retired  doctor  of  Marlingate's  obscurity,  played  at  first  the 
part  of  devil's  advocate,  and  questioned  various  witnesses  as 
to  the  possibility  of  Mrs.  Becket's  "accident"  being  self- 
sought.  He  may  have  done  this  partly  from  conscientious  mo- 
tives, and,  living  away  from  the  town's  modern  activities,  he 
would  not  have  shared  the  jury's  friendly  itch  to  make  things 
as  comfortable  as  possible  for  Becket.  But  he  could  prove 
nothing.  There  was  nothing  in  the  circumstances  of  Mrs. 
Becket's  death,  as  given  by  the  evidence,  to  suggest  suicide. 
She  had  been  in  perfect  health  and  spirits — a  headache  early 
on  the  fatal  morning  (which,  her  maid  said,  had  passed  away 
before  she  went  out)  was  of  little  account,  except  that  per- 
haps it  might  have  caused  a  sudden  vertigo  as  she  stooped  to 
pull  the  branch  of  the  crimson  tree  which  had  evidently  been 


GUARDIAN  AND  GUIDE  215 

her  undoing.  Becket  swore  that  his  wife  had  no  secret  trouble 
or  care,  and  as  for  her  going  to  the  Slide  that  morning — the 
only  circumstance  that  seemed  to  need  explanation — she  had 
always  been  rather  strange  and  wilful  in  her  impulses,  she 
often  went  out  on  little  lonely  expeditions  to  the  cliffs  or  the 
woods.  Anyhow  the  jury  felt  convinced  that  the  wife  of  a 
Marlingate  borough-councillor  would  never  commit  suicide, 
and  their  verdict  was  a  tribute  to  Becket's  dignity  as  well  as  a 
quite  logical  conclusion  from  the  evidence.  In  the  end  even 
the  Coroner  supported  the  "accidental"  theory,  and  endorsed 
a  rider  which  urged  that  the  fence  on  All  Holland  Hill  should 
be  rebuilt  a  couple  of  yards  further  from  the  cliff  edge. 

The  verdict  with  its  appendages  was  brought  to  Monypenny 
at  Harpsichord  House,  where  he  was  taking  tea  with  the  Pel- 
hams.  He  had  at  one  time  been  afraid  that  he  might  be  called 
upon  to  attend  the  inquest,  having  dined  alone  with  Morgan 
Becket  the  night  before  her  death;  but  there  had  never  been 
any  real  suspicion  of  suicide,  and  to  his  infinite  relief  his  evi- 
dence was  not  required.  He  had,  however,  been  glad  to  get 
Pelham's  invitation  to  drink  tea  with  him  and  his  wife — he 
shrank  from  loneliness  during  those  days,  and  he  also  felt  an 
itch  to  tell  Pelham  about  his  building  plans,  since  he  could  not 
at  present  tell  Becket.  The  Alderman  was  not  used  to  being 
taken  into  his  confidence,  and  listened  reverently  with  his  fin- 
ger-tips together  and  his  head  attentively  on  one  side.  Late  in 
the  evening  Robert  Pelham  and  his  wife  brought  the  verdict 
of  the  Coroner's  jury.  Monypenny  was  intensely  relieved, 
though  he  had  never  really  doubted  the  issue.  But  he  was 
quite  unshaken  in  his  belief  that  Morgan's  death  had  been  of 
her  own  seeking,  a  freewill  offering  to  despair. 

As  he  walked  home  that  night  across  the  town  it  seemed 
to  him  as  if  Marlingate  exulted  in  the  death  of  Morgan  le  Fay. 
Her  life  and  her  love  had  threatened  its  prosperity,  but  now 
she  would  live  and  love  no  more.  In  her  battle  with  it  she  had 


216  TAMARISK  TOWN 

been  beaten — it  had  killed  her,  and  now  her  bones  would  lie 
in  its  heart. 

The  wind  sighed  over  the  roofs,  but  it  no  longer  seemed  a 
link  between  the  woods  and  the  sea,  rather  something  lost  and 
outcast,  a  spirit  wailing  restlessly  among  the  chimneys  of  the 
town. 

§2 

The  funeral  was  two  days  later.  Monypenny  attended,  and 
the  rest  of  the  Town  Council,  but  not  officially.  Lewnes  had 
indeed  suggested  that  a  municipal  parade  might  comfort  and 
cheer  their  comrade  in  his  grief,  but  the  idea  had  found  no  ac- 
ceptance, and  the  town  fathers  merely  sprinkled  the  graveside, 
praying  into  their  hats. 

"Ashes  to  ashes,  and  dust  to  dust,"  said  the  Rev.  Somer- 
ville  HunU—the  dust  of  Morgan  to  the  dust  of  Marlingate,  that 
she  might  be  one  with  the  thing  she  hated,  and  perhaps  some 
day  so  inextricably  mixed  with  it  as  to  be  shaped  into  the 
very  bricks  that  were  dug  from  its  clay.  Thus  dreamed  Mony- 
penny, with  his  hat  before  his  eyes,  and  saw  in  his  dream  the 
gulf  under  his  thoughts  grow  wider,  and  yawn  to  swallow  him. 

The  funeral  was  on  a  bitter,  frosty  day,  and  several  of  the 
Corporation  caught  cold  at  it.  Among  them,  surprisingly,  was 
the  Mayor.  He  had  never  been  really  ill  before,  but  now  he 
collapsed  inexplicably  before  a  cold  caught  at  a  funeral.  In- 
fluenza, bronchitis,  pulmonary  congestion,  and  every  trick  a 
cold  can  play,  this  ignoble  chill  played  with  Monypenny's 
strong  body,  now  mysteriously  deprived  of  resistance.  It  was 
like  a  hollow  trunk,  sturdy  and  erect  to  see,  but  at  the  first 
blow  of  the  axe  found  to  be  consumed  within.  Ever  since  Mor- 
gan's death  fire  and  decay  had  been  eating  him,  and  now  he 
was  empty. 

However,  he  lived  through  the  attack,  and  spent  many 
weary,  torpid  days  of  convalescence,  lying  in  his  big  dark  bed 
at  Gun  Garden  House,  and  watching  the  tracery  of  the  Town 


GUARDIAN  AND  GUIDE  217 

Park  trees  sway  and  flicker  against  the  December  sky.  Some- 
times he  forgot  that  they  were  not  the  trees  of  the  Wilderness 
— indeed,  for  some  weeks  he  was  subject  to  queer  attacks  of 
aphasia,  in  which  the  new  Marlingate  faded  into  the  old  that 
used  to  be,  a  quiet  town  of  grass-grown  streets  and  sunny, 
brine-sweet  spaces. 

But  there  was  yet  another  Marlingate  into  which  his  spirit 
was  sometimes  fetched,  and  this  was  a  town  he  dreaded.  He 
saw  it  only  in  dreams,  of  a  kind  which  recurred  rather  fre- 
quently during  the  early  stages  of  convalescence,  when  his  tem- 
perature still  went  up  at  nights.  It  was  his  old  dream  of  a 
dead  town,  which  he  had  dreamed  after  his  sail  in  the  Liz- 
zie Hope.  He  found  himself  a  prisoner  in  dead,  airless  streets 
— empty,  not  with  the  sunny  emptiness  of  bygone  Marlingate, 
but  rather  with  an  aching,  striving  emptiness,  on  which  his 
heart  was  ground  as  on  a  grindstone.  He  saw  all  the  familiar 
landmarks — the  Town  Hall,  the  Maidenhood,  the  Assembly 
Rooms,  St.  Nicholas  Church,  the  Aquarium — but  each  had 
clothed  itself  with  a  new  and  indefinable  horror.  They  were 
familiar  and  yet  horribly  strange — their  outlines  were  hateful, 
and  so  were  the  outlines  of  the  empty  streets,  and  the  shuttered 
houses  past  which  he  wandered  on  an  aching  search  after  he 
knew  not  what.  Up  and  down  in  dead  man's  town  he  walked 
all  night,  only  finding  rest  in  a  weak,  sweating  waking  at  dawn, 
after  which  his  horror  still  hung  over  him  for  a  time.  Indeed, 
once  or  twice,  during  the  latter  part  of  his  convalescence,  when 
the  dream  itself  came  no  more,  he  found  the  terror  closing 
down  on  him  in  waking  hours,  when  he  sat  in  his  easy  chair  at 
the  window,  looking  out  at  Marlingate.  It  was  as  if  the  town 
suddenly  grimaced  at  him,  as  if  its  ruddy  smiling  face,  turned 
up  so  peacefully  to  the  mild  December  sky,  had  suddenly  con^ 
torted  with  a  leer  and  a  sneer. 

Monypenny  said  nothing  of  these  experiences.  He  was 
afraid  of  them.  They  were  signs  of  a  mental  condition  he 
would  be  ashamed  to  reveal.  He  felt  that  they  were  symptoms 


218  TAMARISK  TOWN 

of  madness — he  had  heard  that  the  distortion  of  familiar  ob- 
jects is  a  common  accompaniment  of  insanity.  No  doubt  the 
shock  he  had  received,  followed  by  the  undermining  of  a  long 
illness,  had  shaken  the  seat  of  his  reason.  He  fought  with  his 
trouble  in  secret,  and  at  last  it  passed.  His  mind  cleared,  and 
he  saw  things  as  they  were — or  at  least,  as  he  used  to  see  them. 
By  the  middle  of  January  he  was  once  more  taking  his  part 
in  the  town's  winter  gaieties,  with  a  trace  of  hectic  emaciation 
to  make  him  doubly  romantic  in  the  eyes  of  Marlingate's 
young  ladies. 

§3 

After  his  wife's  funeral  Becket  had  gone  back  to  London  for 
a  couple  of  months,  but  in  February  he  returned  to  the  Coney 
Banks  and  proceeded  to  wallow  in  his  memories.  Monypenny 
called  on  him  once  or  twice,  sometimes  in  a  spirit  of  reluc- 
tance, sometimes  aware  of  the  tuggings  of  a  strange  bond  of 
union.  Here  was  a  man  who  had  loved  Morgan  kindly  and 
faithfully,  the  only  man  on  earth  who  shared  Monypenny 's 
love  and  sorrow,  and  at  the  same  time  the  last  man  on  earth 
who  could  be  told  of  them.  Yet  sometimes  in  the  bare  fact 
there  was  comfort,  and  Monypenny  would  sit  and  listen  pa- 
tiently to  his  sentimental  prosings,  and  come  away  soothed 
into  a  kind  of  peace.  At  other  times  Becket's  unconscious 
fellowship  with  him  in  the  dead  was  only  a  source  of  madden- 
ing irritation,  and  a  jealousy  that  had  never  gnawed  while 
Morgan  was  alive. 

Marlingate  was  extraordinarily  gay  that  winter.  Every 
evening  the  music  of  the  Polka  and  the  Valse  a  deux-temps 
came  from  the  Assembly  Rooms  or  from  some  lighted-up  house 
in  the  residential  part  of  the  town.  The  afternoons  were 
filled  with  concerts,  theatrical  performances  (sometimes  by 
genteel  amateurs)  and  calls  paid  sedately  by  brougham  or  vic- 
toria, while  the  mornings  were  spent  in  ceremonial  promenad- 
ings  round  the  band-stand,  or  on  some  sheltered  seat  in  the 


GUARDIAN  AND  GUIDE  219 

Marine  Gardens.  Through  all  this  gaiety,  from  the  morning 
promenade  to  the  evening  polka,  Monypenny  moved  centrally, 
the  chief  figure  of  all.  No  one  noticed  that  he  was  partner- 
less,  that  all  his  pacings  and  bowings  were  as  ridiculous  as 
those  of  a  man  who  goes  through  a  minuet  alone.  Some  peo- 
ple thought  that  he  was  relapsing  a  little  into  his  old  shyness 
and  silence,  from  which  he  had  so  marvellously  emerged  some 
eighteen  months  ago,  but  the  tendency  was  to  put  this  down 
to  his  illness,  and  young  ladies  murmured  romantically  that 
he  was  consumptive — which  he  was  not. 

He  never  became  quite  as  abrupt  and  reserved  as  he  had 
been  in  the  old  days — Morgan  had  made  a  social  animal  of 
him,  and  he  could  not  in  a  twinkling  undo  her  work.  But  he 
was  aware  in  his  heart  of  a  new  remoteness,  such  as  had  never 
underlain  the  old  taciturnity.  He  was  able  to  laugh  and  talk, 
pay  compliments,  and  even  make  jokes,  as  he  had  never  done 
in  his  early  days  of  triumph,  but  he  could  not  lose  that  sense 
of  loneliness — a  rather  grotesque  loneliness. 

This  futility  gnawed  at  him  not  only  on  the  social  but  on 
the  municipal  side,  which  was  ridiculous,  for  he  knew  that 
Morgan  had  never  taken  the  slightest  interest  in  his  borough 
activities  except  to  thwart  them.  Nevertheless,  his  first  free 
rapture  of  zeal  had  been  succeeded  by  a  strange  inertness  at 
Corporation  and  Town  Committee  meetings — he  felt  dwindled 
and  pathetic  in  his  seat  under  the  Borough  arms.  This  was 
not  the  same  as  the  emotion  that  had  stirred  him  into  revolt 
and  boredom  during  his  perplexing  day  of  surrender — it  was 
rather  a  state  of  strangeness  and  clumsiness,  of  municipal  in- 
hibition. He  was  half  inclined  to  put  it  down  to  the  languors 
of  illness — he  asked  his  doctor  to  prescribe  a  tonic,  and  drank 
two  glasses  of  port,  carefully,  after  dinner.  .  .  . 

But  all  the  while  he  knew  that  under  all  these  restraints 
and  activities,  these  yearnings  and  stirrings  and  regrets  of  his 
surface  being,  lay  a  gulf  too  deep  for  his  thoughts  to  fathom, 


220  TAMARISK  TOWN 

at  the  bottom  of  which  lived  horrors  unimaginable,  and  into 
which  he  must  inevitably  go  down  some  day. 

§4 

But  at  present  he  was  still  on  the  surface,  moving  about 
forlornly  among  ghosts — pale  substances  that  waxed  in  un- 
reality till  at  last  it  seemed  as  if  everything  real  and  vital  was 
down  in  the  gulf  and  the  only  living  thing  about  him  was 
this  despair  he  could  not  face.  Even  his  grief  for  Morgan, 
as  he  was  able  to  formulate  it,  was  a  surface  thing,  and  seemed 
strangely  inadequate.  He  missed  her — as  woman  and  as  in- 
spiration— but  that  was  all.  He  was  sometimes  astonished  at 
the  littleness  of  his  feelings  on  her  account — she  had  been  so 
wonderful,  and  there  was  nothing  wonderful  about  his  sorrow, 
nothing  but  a  dull  ache  and  growing  futility.  His  sense  of  free- 
dom still  remained,  but  it  was  less  pleasurable  and  therefore 
less  shameful — it  was  growing,  like  all  the  rest  of  his  emotions, 
rather  stale. 

He  still  finicked  with  his  plans  for  Park  Terrace,  and  cor- 
responded with  Decimus  Figg.  Once  Figg  came  to  stay  at 
Gun  Garden  House,  and  tore  many  shadows  and  silences  with 
his  boisterous  laugh  and  wagging  tongue.  He  was  growing 
prosperous  now.  Marlingate  had  brought  him  into  reputation, 
and  he  had  just  been  commissioned  to  design  a  Town  Hall  for 
a  newly  incorporated  northern  borough.  Monyperiny  envied 
him  his  enthusiasm  and  pride  in  his  work,  and  his  love  for  it 
which  had  kept  him  celibate  and  single-hearted. 

"I  don't  get  time  to  think  of  women — and  after  all,  when 
I've  got  hold  of  Beauty,  why  should  I  bother  about  what  is 
at  best  only  a  partial  attempt  at  its  expression?  Looking  for 
beauty  in  woman  is  like  drinking  the  water  of  life  out  of  a 
cracked  cup,  when  you've  got  the  whole  river  at  your  feet. 
Besides,  there  ain't  enough  of  me  to  go  spreading  over  every- 
thing. I  was  made  more  for  dreaming  things  than  doing  'em, 


GUARDIAN  AND  GUIDE  221 

just  as  I  design  Town  Halls  but  should  be  doosid  sorry  to  have 
to  build  'em.  You're  different — you're  a  man.  Found  it  out 
yet?" 

Monypenny,  who  had  a  queer  feeling  of  intimacy  and  equal- 
ity with  Figg,  was  moved  to  a  partial  confidence. 

"I've  found  out  that  you  were  wrong  in  what  you  said  to  me 
here  two  or  three  years  ago.  Do  you  remember?  You  said 
that  I  would  never  find  real  satisfaction  in  Marlingate — that  I 
was  born  to  be  something  more  than  just  the  builder  of  this 
town,  a  poet  or  a  lover  or  something.  Well,  I'm  not — I've  tried 
it,  and  it  didn't  answer.  I  found  that  this  town  means  more 
to  me  than  any  human  relationship,  and  when  I  had  to  choose 
between  Marlingate  and — er — love,  I  chose  Marlingate." 

"I'd  never  have  thought  it.  I'd  have  thought  you'd  make  a 
doosid  fine  lover.  You've  got  an  air,  you  know.  Don  Juan — 
ha!  ha!  Well,  perhaps  it's  better  to  be  a  Mayor  or  an  Al- 
derman than  a  lover — not  quite  so  common,  anyway.  Ha! 
ha!" 

"Hal  ha!" 

The  evening  after  Figg  left,  when  Monypenny,  in  spite  of 
a  certain  feeble  enjoyment  he  had  felt  at  his  friend's  visit, 
was  looking  forward  to  being  alone,  Alderman  Lewnes  came  in. 

Monypenny  was  lying  back  in  his  favourite  attitude  in  his 
leather  armchair,  with  his  long  legs  stretched  to  the  fire,  his 
hand  over  his  eyes,  feeling  the  first  welcome  approaches  of  a 
doze.  He  could  scarcely  restrain  his  annoyance  at  the  sight 
of  Lewnes,  red-faced  and  bustling,  and  grasping  a  roll  of  parch- 
ment which  meant  the  discussion  of  borough  affairs. 

"Good  evening,  Mayor.  Thought  I'd  find  you.  You  look  a 
bit  pulled  down — still  weak  and  easily  tired,  I  suppose.  Nasty 
complaint,  influenza — never  seems  to  have  done  with  you." 

Monypenny  had  risen,  and  with  grave  courtesy  had  pulled 
forward  another  armchair,  at  the  same  time  ordering  his  serv- 
ant to  bring  in  port  and  cigars. 

Lewnes  sat  down  and  unspread  his  roll. 


222  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"Figg  left  this  at  my  place  this  morning,  and  Lusted  and  I 
are  both  agreed — we  can't  stand  it." 

He  thrust  into  Monypenny's  hands  the  architect's  designs 
for  the  new  houses  on  the  Coney  Banks. 

"If  they  were  to  be  built  like  that,"  continued  Lewnes.  point- 
ing with  a  podgy  and  rather,  dirty  ringer,  "in  three  years'  time 
no  one  would  scarce  ever  know  that  they  were  new  'ouses." 

Figg  had  taken  as  his  models  the  seventeenth  century  houses 
at  the  foot  of  the  Banks,  and  had  kept  faith  with  their  big, 
sprawling  roofs  and  casement  windows.  Even  Monypenny 
thought  he  had  been  a  little  extreme  in  his  loyalty  to  the 
spirit  of  the  town. 

"You  could  modify  the  windows,"  he  suggested — "Figg  isn't 
pig-headed.  He'll  let  his  designs  be  improved  upon." 

Lewnes  sniffed. 

"You'd  never  improve  these  'ouses  into  anything  decent. 
They've  got  no  style — not  a  vestige  of  it.  I  want  something 
modern  and  convenient  on  my  land,  something  with  style — a 
bit  slap-up,  you  know." 

"I  see — but  that  would  hardly  be  in  keeping  with  the  rest 
of  the  Coney  Banks."  Monypenny  felt  a  sudden  weariness  of 
the  whole  job.  His  voice  lacked  its  old  ring  of  authority,  and 
Lewnes's  horns  came  out  a  bit  further. 

"Excuse  me,  Mayor,  but  it  would.  All  those  Coney  Bank 
'ouses  were  new  and  up-to-date  and  in  the  best  style  when  they 
were  first  put  up.  The  party  who  built  those  old  places  down 
by  the  street  he  didn't  think  he'd  got  to  copy  the  Town  Hall 
or  any  other  old  building  that  was  there — he  ran  up  some- 
thing fashionable  in  his  time;  and  so  did  Lusted 's  father  when 
he  took  to  building  higher  up — he  didn't  copy  the  old  party 
down  at  the  bottom;  and  Lusted  didn't  copy  his  father.  You 
see  it's  progress,  and  you'll  never  get  on  without  it.  Fashion- 
ables want  new  slap-up  styles,  and  you  can't  put  'em  off  by 
talking  of  'the  spirit  of  the  town.'  Picture  me  if  I  was  to  sell 
nothing  but  knee-breeches  and  high-waisted  gowns  in  my  Em- 


GUARDIAN  AND  GUIDE  223 

porium,  because  Eugenie  skirts  and  plaid  trousers  didn't  match 
with  the  spirit  of  the  town.  He!  he! " 

Monypenny  was  far  too  logically  minded  not  to  see  reason 
in  Lewnes's  speech.  But  he  could  hardly  suppress  a  feeble 
laugh  when  he  saw  logic  put  into  action.  The  Alderman  tri- 
umphantly pulled  out  a  second  roll. 

''This  was  done  in  Lusted's  office  this  afternoon.  These  are 
his  'ouses,  and  I  must  say  I  like  them  better  than  Figg;s." 

The  latest  imaginations  of  the  house  of  Lusted  were  like 
the  older  ones  in  height,  but  unlike  them  in  substance.  The 
old  Aldermanic  houses,  which  Decimus  Figg  had  laughed  at  ten 
years  ago,  had  been  built  either  of  bricks  or  of  mine-stones,  and 
their  frontages  were  generally  tarred — these  new  houses  were 
fashionable  in  suits  of  stucco,  and  their  bows  had  been  angu- 
larised  into  bays,  with  balconies  outside  them,  and,  drooping 
from  above,  strange  curving  iron  shades,  toothed  and  perfo- 
rated at  the  rims,  which  reminded  Monypenny  of  the  parasols 
the  ladies  of  Marlingate  carried  at  that  period. 

"What  are  these?"  he  asked  lamely. 

"The  very  newest  thing — verandah-shades.  They  can  be 
painted  green  or  red  or  blue,  according  to  the  fancy  of  the  ten- 
ant." 

"Don't  like  them — or  basements  either.  Why  do  you  want 
areas?" 

"All  modern  houses  have  them — most  convenient.  People 
don't  want  their  servants  with  them  on  the  same  floor.  Be- 
sides, it  saves  land.  You  get  three  or  four  rooms  extra  on  the 
same  ground-space." 

"I  was  not  aware  that  we  were  hard  up  for  land." 

"Not  now.  But  mark  my  words  we  will  be,  if  we  build  these 
beauties.  They're  absolutely  the  last  London  style;  and  I'll 
tell  you  something,  Mayor,  in  confidence.  There  was  a  lady, 
no  end  of  a  swell,  in  my  place  yesterday  afternoon,  and  I 
heard  her  say  that  she  wouldn't  mind  living  down  here  if  she 
could  get  a  nice  modern  convenient  'ouse " 


224  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"Well,  there's  Becket  Grove  and  Rye  Lane  Villas " 

"But  hark  to  what  she  said  after  that — she  said  she  wished 
there  was  some  'ouses  here  like  what  they're  building  now  at 
Brighton;  and  they're  building  ten  streets  of  these  little  beau- 
ties at  Brighton  1"  and  Lewnes  waved  Lusted's  designs  tri- 
umphantly. 

Monypenny  did  not  attempt  to  answer  him.  He  felt  tired — 
fagged  out  in  spirit.  The  style  of  house  on  the  Coney  Banks 
seemed  suddenly  a  very  inconsiderable  matter,  compared  with 
his  great  desire  to  be  let  alone.  He  wished  Lewnes  would  go, 
and  stop  bothering  him. 

Lewnes  must  have  realised  this  unfamiliar  weakness  in  the 
master  mind,  for  he  began  to  advance  his  position  under  cover 
of  a  little  bluff. 

"Of  course  Lusted  and  I  have  made  up  our  minds.  We  ain't 
going  to  have  Figg's  designs.  We'll  pay  him  for  'em  right 
enough — there's  nothing  mean  about  your  'umble  servant,  I 
hope.  But  we  won't  use  'em.  That's  flat.  We  said  we'd  look 
at  'em  to  oblige  you,  Mayor,  and  now  we've  looked  and  we 
don't  like — so  that's  over.  Naturally  if  you've  any  observa- 
tions to  make  about  these  designs  of  ours,  I'll  be  very  willing 
to  listen." 

For  a  moment  during  his  words  Monypenny's  anger  had 
quickened,  but  the  next  it  had  died  out  like  a  spark  too  weak 
to  burn.  After  all,  what  was  the  sense  of  fighting  Lewnes  on 
this  trifling  question?  What  did  it  matter  if  he  built  the 
Coney  Banks  over  with  freaks  and  deformities?  He  had  reason 
on  his  side,  and  it  was  hardly  worth  sacrificing  reason  to 
beauty  since  beauty  was  dead.  Nor  was  it  just  that  his  pleas- 
ure should  be  spoiled  for  the  sake  of  a  man  who  would  never 
know  pleasure  again.  Anyhow  it  was  not  worth  the  effort  of 
opposing  him.  He  waved  a  languid  white  hand  towards 
Lewnes's  scroll. 

"Build  what  you  please — crystal  palaces  or  bathing  boxes. 
I  don't  care.  I  leave  it  all  to  you." 


GUARDIAN  AND  GUIDE  225 

Lewnes  looked  startled.  He  had  seen  the  unusual  weakness 
of  the  opposition,  but  he  was  unprepared  for  this  collapse. 

"And  you've  no  observations  to  make?" 

"None  whatever." 

Lewnes  raised  his  port  to  his  lips — surprise  and  victory 
made  his  hand  a  little  unsteady.  Then  he  looked  across  at 
Monypenny  in  the  opposite  chair,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  he  pitied  him.  He  looked  weak  and  ill  and  helpless — he 
must  be  in  very  poor  condition  to  let  himself  be  bullied.  Yes, 
tonight  he,  Lewnes,  had  actually  bullied  him.  And  he  had  pit- 
ied him  too,  which  seemed  nearly  as  impossible.  It  would  be 
something  to  tell  Lucy  tonight  and  Lusted  tomorrow.  His 
heart  warmed  towards  the  cause  of  his  triumph. 

"You  look  a  bit  down  in  the  mouth,  old  feller.  That  nasty 
influenza  still  hanging  about,  I  suppose.  D'you  know,  I  often 
feel,  Monypenny,  that  you  ought  to  have  someone  to  look  af- 
ter you — someone  like  what  I've  got  at  home — a  nice  little  wo- 
man that'll  fuss  round  and  see  that  your  shirts  are  aired  and 
your  slippers  at  the  fire." 

Monypenny's  face  was  lost  behind  a  cloud  of  cigar-smoke, 
or  perhaps  Lewnes  would  not  have  continued — 

"Now  you  take  the  advice  of  one  that's  tried  it,  and  get  mar- 
ried. There's  a  score  of  nice  gals  that  ud  have  you — and  one 
I  know  of  in  particular.  You  'eart-breaker!" 

Monypenny  sat  up. 

"I  suppose  you'll  build  those  houses  half-way  up  the  Banks, 
on  the  south  side  of  the  road?" 

"Yes,  a  row  of  'em." 

Lewnes  was  a  little  bewildered  at  this  boomerang  swing  of 
the  conversation,  and  having  won  his  victory  was  not  anxious 
to  remain  on  the  battlefield.  But  Monypenny  kept  him  skir- 
mishing over  details,  till  at  last,  with  his  opinions  as  to  the 
weakness  of  the  enemy  a  trifle  modified,  he  rose  for  a  retreat 
to  the  little  woman  who  was  warming  his  slippers. 

Monypenny,  as  he  showed  him  out  of  the  door,  experienced 


226  TAMARISK  TOWN 

a  violent  desire  to  help  him  down  the  steps  with  a  kick  behind. 
It  was  the  first  real  emotion  he  had  felt  for  months,  but  he  re- 
strained it. 

§5 

The  next  morning  he  could  not  think  how  he  had  done  it — 
allowed  himself  to  be  bullied  into  toleration  of  Lewnes's  vul- 
garities. In  all  his  life  he  had  never  been  guilty  of  such  a 
lapse.  He  had  betrayed  his  town — only  in  a  minor  matter,  it 
is  true,  but  it  added  to  his  shame  to  realise  that  he  had  failed 
in  so  little  who  had  been  faithful  in  so  much.  Constans  Fidei 
— in  fulfilment  of  the  borough  motto  he  had  sacrificed  the 
whole  heart  and  sweetness  of  life,  and  now  over  a  minor  mat- 
ter of  rue  and  cummin  he  had  been  found  wanting. 

At  first  his  impulse  was  to  go  to  Lewnes  and  revoke  his 
bounty,  but  he  was  withheld,  partly  by  the  realisation  that 
his  opposition  would  be  useless — it  had  no  legal  rights,  it 
had  always  been  built  on  a  prestige  which  he  had  now  kicked 
over — and  partly  by  the  dragging  of  the  old  weariness.  The 
old  question — "what  does  it  matter?"  had  not  been  answered 
yet.  Besides,  the  Coney  Banks  were  only  a  very  small  part  of 
the  town,  and  he  had  all  his  new  building  at  the  back  of  the 
Park  to  think  of.  If  he  carried  out  his  great  plan,  then  the 
small  unsightliness  of  Lewnes's  creation  would  be  wiped  out  in 
the  general  dazzle. 

These  thoughts  brought  him  out  to  the  woods  that  after- 
noon. It  was  a  moist  February  day — a  pale  sunshine  shone 
among  the  clouds,  but  seemed  almost  too  feeble  to  reach  the 
earth,  where  there  was  neither  gleam  nor  shadow.  Only  in 
the  upper  air  a  kind  of  radiance  hung,  dim  and  thick  in  the 
earth-smelling  mists  that  smudged  the  fine  tracery  of  the  oaks. 
Under  Monypenny's  boots  the  ground  made  sucking,  watery 
sounds,  for  it  held  the  soakings  of  much  rain.  Pools  had  gath- 
ered in  the  mud,  and  in  the  hollows  of  the  ash-stumps,  and  the 
ruts  of  the  track  were  full  of  water  which  was  yellow  with  the 


GUARDIAN  AND  GUIDE  227 

reflection  of  the  primrose  gaps  in  the  sky.  There  was  no  colour 
in  the  woods  save  washed-out  duns  and  yellows,  and  no  scent 
save  the  smells  of  earth  and  water,  and  no  sound  save  the 
splash  and  suck  of  Monypenny's  feet  in  the  mud. 

He  followed  the  track  out  of  sight  of  the  backs  of  Becket 
Grove,  away  towards  Old  Rumble,  where  it  began  to  climb. 
All  the  while  he  traced  beside  it  houses  and  gardens  that  would 
wipe  out  the  indignity  of  the  Coney  Banks.  He  carried  a  roll  of 
plans  with  him,  and  every  now  and  then  he  stopped  and  pored 
over  it.  He  half  wished  that  he  had  asked  Becket  to  come  with 
him.  He  could  do  nothing  without  Becket.  He  would  fetch 
him  out  tomorrow.  After  all,  it  was  a  poor  game,  doing  this 
sort  of  thing  alone.  The  woods  were  dreadfully  lonely,  and 
their  stillness  oppressed  him.  .  .  . 

"Come  back  to  these  woodlands,  sweet  Morgan  le  Fay.  .  ." 

He  had  put  his  roll  of  plans  against  a  tree,  holding  it  in  po- 
sition with  his  hand  and  forearm,  and  his  despair  closed  on 
him.  What  was  the  use  of  wandering  in  the  woods  when  he 
would  never  again  see  Morgan  le  Fay  laughing  at  him  from  a 
tree-trunk,  as  she  had  laughed  when  first  he  came  to  plan? 
What  did  it  matter  whether  he  came  alone  or  with  Becket,  now 
that  he  was  doomed  to  a  lifelong  loneliness?  What  was  the 
use  of  planning  for  beauty  now  that  beauty  was  dead? 

He  sat  down  upon  an  ash-stump,  his  hands  clenched  round 
the  scroll  of  his  useless  endeavour,  and  his  thoughts  became 
miserably  clear.  He  saw  why  he  had  given  in  to  Lewnes  last 
night.  It  did  not  matter  a  damn  what  Lewnes  built  on  the 
Coney  Banks,  or  what  Monypenny  built  behind  the  Town 
Park.  Everything  was  equally  futile  now  Morgan  was  dead. 
He  had  built  Marlingate  for  Morgan — before  he  had  even 
seen  her  he  had  built  it  for  her — she  was  that  Dream  Beyond, 
after  which  he  had  always  striven,  and  at  last  had  held,  and 
now  had  slain. 

He  saw  what  was  in  the  gulf  under  his  thoughts.    It  was 


228  TAMARISK  TOWN 

the  knowledge  that  he  had  sacrificed  himself  and  Morgan  to  a 
lie.  Hitherto  he  had  always  been  able  to  get  a  little  com- 
fort, a  little  moral  stiffening,  from  the  thought  that  he  had 
been  faithful  where  his  faithfulness  was  due,  but  now  he  saw 
that  his  very  faithfulness  had  been  nothing  but  a  huge  be- 
trayal of  himself.  It  was  to  Morgan  that  he  had  always  be- 
longed, not  Marlingate,  and  if  he  had  clung  to  Morgan,  he 
realised  that  in  some  dim,  strange  way  he  would  still  have  kept 
Marlingate,  even  if  he  never  set  foot  in  it  again — but  when  he 
renounced  Morgan  he  lost  Marlingate  too.  Morgan  le  Fay  in 
her  death  had  worked  a  far  greater  enchantment  than  ever  in 
life.  For  she  had  taken  his  town  with  her  into  the  shadows. 
Marlingate  was  dead. 

§6 

The  trees  of  Old  Rumble  and  Sharnden  Woods  hid  from  the 
town  the  sight  of  its  Mayor  crouched  upon  an  ash-stump,  his 
head  on  his  knees,  his  roll  of  plans  in  the  mud  beside  him. 
Drippings  from  the  boughs  splashed  on  his  shoulders  and  on 
his  grey  top-hat  which  lay  forlornly  in  the  leaves  beside  the 
parchment.  For  an  hour  he  scarcely  moved,  and  the  woods 
which  had  kept  the  secret  of  his  love  from  the  prying  town  now 
kept  the  secret  of  his  grief. 

For  an  hour  Monypenny  sat  hunched  on  his  ash-stump,  so 
still  that  a  rabbit  ate  a  primrose  leaf  beside  him,  and  a  thrush 
broke  a  snail's  shell  on  the  crown  of  his  top-hat.  Then  he 
lifted  a  damp,  lined  face.  He  had  been  down  in  the  gulf  un- 
der his  thoughts,  and  came  up  like  a  man  half-drowned.  His 
eyes  looked  weak  and  red,  though  he  had  not  wept. 

He  stretched  his  limbs,  which  were  aching  with  cramp,  and 
stood  up;  then  he  discovered  that  he  was  trembling.  He  was 
shaking  so  that  he  could  hardly  stand.  He  sat  down  again, 
and  picking  up  his  hat,  began  to  brush  it  with  his  sleeve.  Far 
away  down  in  the  pit  of  his  tortured  mind  some  habit  of  nice- 
ness  still  lived  and  fretted  to  see  the  rubbed  nap,  with  the 


GUARDIAN  AND  GUIDE  229 

drops  of  rain  and  bits  of  snail-shell.  Given  at  first  to  mechan- 
ical stimulation,  the  habit  rose  out  of  the  pit  to  the  surface  of 
consciousness,  and  Monypenny  found  in  his  chaos  and  flood  a 
little  bit  of  solid  ground.  He  picked  up  a  handful  of  dead 
leaves  and  began  to  rub  the  mud  off  his  boots,  he  brushed 
globes  of  moisture  from  his  coat,  re-settled  his  tie  which  had 
gone  astray  under  the  wings  of  his  Gladstone  collar.  Then  he 
stood  up,  once  more  a  man. 

But  he  could  not  go  back  to  Gun  Garden  House.  At  his 
solitary  tea-table  in  his  library  of  glooms  the  horror  might 
swallow  him  up  again.  He  dared  not  face  a  lonely  evening, 
and  unluckily  he  had  no  engagement  that  night.  Should  he 
go  back  into  the  town  and  call  upon  the  Pelhams? — or  the 
Hurdicotts? — or  the  Fulleyloves? — or  Lady  Cockstreet?  Pel- 
ham  would  talk  of  the  town's  business,  and  the  rest  of  the 
town's  pleasure.  All  were  linked  with  the  agony  he  had  suf- 
fered— they  lay  with  Morgan  and  Marlingate  in  the  hell  he 
had  just  struggled  out  of,  which  yawned  to  capture  him  again. 
Besides,  he  did  not  like  to  think  of  the  long  walk  townward 
through  the  woods,  between  the  mocking' ghosts  of  the  houses 
he  was  planning  for  naught.  He  wanted  a  near  refuge. 

As  he  looked  over  his  shoulder,  he  suddenly  saw  the  sun- 
set gleam  in  a  merge  of  copper  and  amber  on  the  windows  of 
some  house  set  up  above  the  woods.  His  first  thought,  in  a 
brain  still  weak  and  unsteady  from  its  experiences,  was  that 
this  was  one  of  his  ghostly  houses,  suddenly  alive  and  aflame. 
But  the  next  moment  he  realised  that  it  was  Old  Rumble 
House.  The  illusion  had  been  too  transient  for  him  to  feel 
wistful  at  its  fading — on  the  contrary,  he  thought  of  Old  Rum- 
ble and  Fanny  Vidler  with  a  certain  comfort.  Fanny's  com- 
pany would  be  less  drearily  indifferent  than  Pelham's  or  Hur- 
dicott's,  and  her  house  a  better  and  a  closer  refuge  than  any  in 
the  town.  She  was  a  good  girl,  Fanny,  and  he  felt  that  her 
peaceful  kindliness  was  the  very  welcome  he  wanted. 

He  realised  that  he  was  no  fit  object  to  call  at  a  lady's  house 


230  TAMARISK  TOWN 

— but  he  couldn't  help  that.  He  must  have  some  sort  of  friend- 
ly company,  and  he  knew  now  that  what  he  wanted  was  a 
friendly  woman's  company.  Fanny  would  divert  and  soothe 
him,  she  would  pamper  his  body  which  felt  cold  and  tired  and 
cramped.  He  would  sit  by  her  fire  and  drink  the  hot  tea  he 
was  craving  for,  and  listen  to  her  good-natured,  cheerful  talk. 
He  remembered  what  Lewnes  had  said  to  him  about  her  last 
night,  and  at  any  other  time  the  memory  would  have  kept 
him  away,  but  today  it  had  no  more  power  than  his  damp  and 
muddy  clothing. 

§7 

Old  Rumble  House  was  a  four-square  Georgian  building, 
red  and  solid,  at  the  corner  of  Old  Rumble  Wood.  When 
Monypenny  drew  near,  it  seemed  ridiculous  to  think  that  he 
had  ever  taken  it  for  a  ghost;  it  was  altogether  substantial — 
typical  creation  of  an  imagination  fed  on  beef  and  turnips.  It 
stared  blandly  at  him  down  its  drive  as  he  walked  up  towards 
it,  and  its  large  friendly  portico  seemed  to  welcome  him  as  he 
stood  beneath  its  fluted  columns  and  raised  the  heavy  knocker 
of  the  door. 

A  further  welcome  waited  inside.  Monypenny  had  called 
only  once  before  at  Old  Rumble,  and  then  it  was  on  some  dim, 
ceremonial  occasion,  half-forgotten.  Fanny  and  her  cousin  Sue 
Vidler  were  alone,  and  intensely  thrilled  and  delighted  by  this 
visit  of  the  Mayor.  The  hungry  imaginations  of  Monypenny's 
fagged  brain  were  realised.  He  found  himself  sitting  in  a  deep 
armchair  by  a  blazing  fire,  while  Fanny  and  Sue  handed  muf- 
fins and  tea.  His  overcoat,  in  the  midst  of  his  apologies  for  it, 
was  sent  to  the  kitchen  to  be  dried,  and  if  he  had  not  been  still 
sufficiently  himself  to  shrink  from  any  contact  with  the  ridic- 
ulous, the  same  would  have  happened  to  his  boots. 

It  was  the  comfortable  peace  he  had  expected;  the  fire  and 
the  hot  tea  brought  him  into  a  state  of  well-being  which  showed 
him  that  the  reactions  of  the  body  have  power  over  the  most 


GUARDIAN  AND  GUIDE  231 

desperate  states  of  the  mind.  He  began  even  to  take  an  in- 
terest in  Fanny's  conversation — at  first  there  had  been  a  queer 
startled  abstraction  about  him,  a  restless  timidity,  which  gave 
rise  to  much  fluttering  and  laughing  conjecture  between  the 
two  women  after  he  was  gone.  Fanny  sat  on  a  low  chair,  her 
maroon  silk  skirts  spreading  round  her  on  the  floor,  the  fire- 
light playing  on  her  broad  pretty  face,  showing  him  her  big 
white  teeth  every  time  she  smiled,  which  was  often.  She  was 
now?  an  extraordinarily  fine  young  woman  of  twenty-six,  with  a 
soft  creamy  skin,  warm  golden  eyes,  and  hair  the  colour  of  Old 
Rumble  Woods  in  Autumn.  Her  voice  was  soft  and  pleasant, 
and  she  used  pleasant  words  when  she  spoke.  She  was  trivial 
without  being  silly. 

He  had  always  liked  her,  and  now  he  felt  himself  grateful 
to  her  for  the  refuge  she  was  unconsciously  providing.  Fanny 
was  not  brilliant,  and  one  or  two  Marlingate  young  ladies 
might  have  called  her  ungenteel — certainly  there  was  nothing 
remarkable  about  her  simple  chat  that  evening.  But  it  was 
keeping  Monypenny  out  of  hell. 

When  he  felt  himself  safe,  and  able  to  face  his  lonely  night, 
he  rose  to  go.  Fanny  blushed  when  he  thanked  her  sincerely 
for  his  entertainment,  and  he  remembered  Lewnes's  words  with 
more  embarrassment  than  earlier  in  the  afternoon.  Perhaps  it 
was  wrong  and  cruel  of  him  to  have  used  her  as  a  comforter 
when  he  would  use  her  as  nothing  else — and  yet  her  happy  face 
told  him  that  he  had  not  used  her  ill. 

§8 

After  that  Monypenny  saw  a  great  deal  of  Fanny  Vidler. 
They  met  frequently  in  the  natural  course  of  entertainments, 
but  that  had  always  been,  and  now  was  not  enough.  He 
sought  her  out  at  the  back  of  the  town,  in  her  house  behind 
the  woods.  Here  a  great  red  fire  burned  on  right  into  May, 
and  there  was  always  a  chair  for  him  beside  it,  and  tea  and 


232  TAMARISK  TOWN 

muffins,  and  a  friendly  voice  that  made  no  demand  on  his  tired 
wits  but  flowed  serenely  on  through  pleasant  things. 

He  needed  Fanny,  and  he  was  grateful  to  her  not  only  for 
supplying  his  need  but  for  creating  it.  He  was  glad  to  dis- 
cover any  cravings  in  himself,  however  humble — and  he  would 
never  forget  how  she  had  saved  him  in  his  hour  of  despair. 
There  had  been  no  falling  back  into  the  pit,  but  he  suffered  in 
his  daily  life  with  a  new  awareness.  It  was  one  of  the  many 
baffling  accompaniments  of  Morgan's  death  that  time  should 
quicken  rather  than  deaden  his  sense  of  loss,  that  every  week 
his  sorrow  and  his  longing  should  grow,  twined  more  and  more 
closely  with  regret  and  bitter  shame. 

He  was  still  as  thorough  as  ever  in  his  Mayoral  duties,  but 
it  was  a  more  mechanical  thoroughness.  His  ambition  no 
longer  preyed  on  circumstances  or  soared  in  dreams.  At  th* 
same  time  he  lost  that  outward  air  of  weariness  and  abstrac> 
tion  which  the  Corporation  had  occasionally  noticed  and  put 
down  to  his  illness.  He  was  now  always  business-like  and  in- 
creasingly dignified.  With  Lewnes  he  had  an  especial  air  of 
stiffness,  as  if  to  warn  him  that  his  manners  must  mend. 

Meanwhile  the  plans  for  Park  Terrace  and  Pelham  Square 
had  been  approved  by  Becket  and  were  to  take  shape  at  once. 
Nearly  every  day  Monypenny  was  up  in  the  woods  to  inspect 
the  clearing,  and  at  the  end  of  an  afternoon's  surveillance  it  was 
natural  that  he  should  go  for  rest  of  mind  and  body  to  Old 
Rumble  House.  He  was  still  unable  to  face  a  lonely  evening, 
and  the  mixed  distractions  of  municipal  entertainments  had 
not  the  same  soothing  effect  as  these  quiet  hours  of  sunset  and 
firelight.  He  was  too  deeply  exhausted  to  find  much  diver- 
sion in  carnival ;  besides,  all  the  gaieties  in  which  he  took  part, 
whether  borough  or  private,  reminded  him  of  Morgan,  and 
that  sedate,  sweet  dance  they  had  danced  together  through 
Marlingate's  festivities.  Morgan  had  no  associations  with  Old 
Rumble  House.  Her  ghost  did  not  follow  him  in  under  the 


GUARDIAN  AND  GUIDE  233 

fluted  columns  of  its  portico — he  left  it  outside  in  Old  Rum- 
ble Woods. 

Of  course  he  knew  the  conclusions  that  Marlingate  would 
draw  from  his  visits  to  Fanny;  it  had  gossiped  enough  when 
his  attentions  were  merely  social  and  public,  so  he  could 
imagine  how  it  talked  now  that  they  had  become  personal  and 
private.  Sue  Vidler — an  arch,  indiscreet  old  maid,  given  to 
significant  withdrawals — no  doubt  had  her  thoughts  on  the 
subject,  and  no  doubt  did  not  keep  them  to  herself.  The 
trouble  was  that  Fanny  must  have  thoughts  too.  She  could 
not  know  that  Monypenny  came  to  her  because  he  dared  not 
face  his  own  solitude,  whether  alone  at  Gun  Garden  House  or 
in  the  midst  of  some  gay  company — because  she  was,  inex- 
plicably, the  only  human  being  who  could  give  him  any  sort 
of  rest.  He  often  wondered  how  it  was  that  he  found  rest  in 
Fanny.  He  had  always  liked  her,  but  then  he  had  always 
liked  Lady  Cockstreet,  and  never  thought  of  going  to  her  in 
his  loneliness. 

He  saw  clearly  that  it  was  woman  he  wanted,  and  less  clear- 
ly that  he  wanted  her  as  woman.  At  first  he  was  horrified 
when  he  discovered  this.  But  as  well  as  the  comfort  of  Fanny's 
presence  and  conversation  he  wanted  the  comfort  of  her  in 
his  arms,  to  kiss  her  pleasant  mouth  and  tawny  hair,  to  take 
from  her  the  ghost  of  love,  since  he  could  never  have  more  than 
the  ghost. 

He  was  ashamed  of  himself,  ashamed  of  compromising 
Fanny  with  the  town,  and  of  troubling  her  heart.  He  was 
ashamed  to  discover  that  his  senses  and  his  virility  had  not 
died  with  her  who  had  awakened  them.  He  tried  to  keep  away 
from  Old  Rumble  House,  and  found  that  he  could  not.  Fanny 
was  now  the  only  fixed  thing  in  his  life — Morgan  was  dead  and 
Marlingate  had  crumbled,  but  Fanny  had  somehow  a  life  and 
solidity  of  her  own.  Her  goodness  to  him  had  made  her  real, 
and  her  reality  had  created  his  need  of  her. 

At  first  he  rebelled  miserably  against  these  discoveries.    It 


234  TAMARISK  TOWN 

was  humiliating  to  realise  that  he  could  not  endure  his  grief 
in  self-respecting  austerity,  but  must  take  what  comfort  he 
could  get  from  the  things  it  had  left  upstanding.  He  found 
himself  envying  those  noble  souls  who  were  able  to  keep  faith 
with  their  sorrow,  and  having  lost  the  best,  turn  in  contempt 
from  everything  else,  keeping  their  clear-eyed  vigil  beside  the 
polished  tomb  of  love — Constans  Fidei. 

A  year  ago  he  would  have  recoiled  in  fastidious  horror  from 
the  suggestion  that  so  soon  after  Morgan's  death  he  would  be 
considering  marriage  with  another  woman.  Yet  he  knew  in  his 
heart  that  his  unfaithfulness  was  only  the  bodily  expression 
of  an  inward  faith.  If  he  had  loved  Morgan  a  little  less  he 
might  have  been  true  to  her  memory. 

Marriage  was  the  only  way  he  could  fill  the  void  that  she 
had  left  in  his  life.  No  doubt  an  outbreak  into  vice  would 
have  been  a  more  normal  and  approved  expression  of  his  grief, 
since  it  could  not  be  expressed  in  terms  of  constancy.  But  his 
was  a  nature  self-contained  and  arrogant  even  in  its  reactions 
— besides,  to  be  vicious  in  Marlingate  required  an  effort  and 
any  sort  of  effort  was  beyond  him  now.  He  could  only  follow 
his  poor  unheroic  path  to  Fanny,  stumbling  to  her  feet  to  be 
comforted. 

As  he  could  not  stop  away  from  her  he  must  marry  her,  be- 
cause he  had  too  much  regard  for  her  to  compromise  her  or  to 
grieve  her.  Besides,  he  must  once  more  have  woman  in  his  life. 
If  he  married  Fanny  he  would  not  be  putting  her  in  Morgan's 
place — he  must  have  that  much  concession  to  sentiment — 
Fanny  would  be  a  comfortable  background,  the  keeper  of  his 
house,  the  mother  of  his  children,  all  the  things  that  Morgan 
would  never  have  been,  except  in  so  new  and  brave  a  way  that 
they  would  not  have  seemed  the  same  things  any  more.  His 
mind  went  over  much  the  same  ground  as  it  had  gone  when  he 
lay  in  his  bed  and  pondered,  after  his  landing  from  the  Lizzie 
Hope,  but  it  now  knew  a  new  need,  and  the  old  considerations 
of  borough  expediency  no  longer  swayed  him.  His  delibera- 


GUARDIAN  AND  GUIDE  235 

tions  ended,  as  the  earlier  ones,  in  a  walk  through  the  woods 
to  Old  Rumble  House, 

§9 

This  time  there  was  nothing  to  stop  him  on  his  way  to  sacri- 
fice— no  embodiment  of  all  the  sunshine  in  the  woods,  the 
glowing,  poppy-coloured,  fire-hearted  shape  of  Summer  and 
love.  He  tramped  without  uncertainty.  He  had  no  need  to 
fling  himself  down  in  a  thicket,  and  think  on  with  his  half- 
thought  question.  He  had  stooped  to  his  fate,  to  the  inevitable 
tragedy  of  his  human  weakness,  and  the  only  doubt  in  his  mind 
was  whether  Fanny  would  accept  his  offering.  She  must  know 
that  he  did  not  love  her — he  had  never  pretended  to  love  her, 
he  could  not  now  pretend  to  love  her.  His  offering  of  himself 
was  a  surrender  not  to  love  but  to  grief.  Fanny  would  be 
sure  to  see  that  something  was  wrong,  and  refuse  to  accept  him 
on  such  terms.  For  Monypenny  was  still  very  humble  and  dif- 
fident in  the  matter  of  women.  The  town  would  have  laughed 
at  him,  and  told  him  that  Fanny  would  be  willing  to  forego  not 
only  love  on  his  side  but  love  on  hers.  Refuse  the  Mayor  of 
Marlingate,  with  rank  and  power,  good  looks  and  money! 
What  girl  would  be  so  grasping  as  to  demand  that  love  be 
thrown  into  such  a  weighted  scale? 

It  happened  that  both  Monypenny  and  the  town  were 
wrong.  Fanny  accepted  him  joyfully  and  gratefully,  and  not 
for  his  wealth  or  his  position,  but  for  himself,  the  man  she  had 
loved  and  longed  for  nearly  ten  years.  Not  only  did  she  love 
him,  but  she  had  no  idea  that  he  did  not  love  her.  She  had 
seen  for  months  that  he  obviously  could  not  keep  away  from 
her,  and  how  should  she  possibly  know  that  it  was  love  for 
another  woman  that  drove  him  to  her  side?  He  had  never 
flirted  with  her  or  paid  her  compliments,  but  it  was  easy  to  see 
that  his  nature  had  not  any  of  that  small  change.  He  never 
attempted  to  make  love  to  her  or  kiss  her,  but  in  those  days 
such  familiarities  formed  no  part  of  a  decent  wooing.  Mony- 


236  TAMARISK  TOWN 

penny  by  his  frequent  visits,  his  gentle,  humble  manner  in  her 
presence,  and  tin  staid  embrace  with  which  he  received  her 
acceptance  of  him  had  fulfilled  all  the  conditions  of  courtship 
as  understood  by  Fanny  Vidler  in  1867. 


§  10 

So  one  August  day  the  bells  of  St.  Nicholas  rang  for  Mony- 
penny's  wedding.  It  was  a  festival  in  Marlingate,  and  the 
church  was  crowded,  so  that  the  mouldy  aisles  smelled  like  the 
Assembly  Rooms  on  gala  nights — of  flowers,  cologne  water, 
new  glaces,  and  macassar  oil.  All  the  company  could  not  be 
got  into  the  church,  nor  afterwards  into  the  Marine  Hotel, 
where  the  reception  was  held,  as  Fanny's  own  house  was  too 
remote,  and  her  uncle  Vidler's  too  lowly,  for  the  purpose. 

There  had  been  intense  excitement  when  it  was  known  that 
the  Mayor  had  at  last  thrown  the  handkerchief.  Everyone 
said  that  they  "had  expected  it  would  be  Fanny  Vidler,"  none 
the  less  extraordinary  rumours  were  current  of  a  disappointed 
baronet's  widow,  a  titled  debutante  who  had  straightway  left 
Marlingate  with  her  frustrated  Mamma,  and  a  Hurdicott  of 
Graveley  who  had  fainted  circumstantially  over  the  back  of 
the  sofa  on  hearing  the  news. 

Some  people  said  that  he  had  thrown  himself  away  on  Fanny 
Vidler — he  could  have  had  rank  as  well  as  wealth  for  the  ask- 
ing; others  were  rejoiced  that  he  had  chosen  municipally,  and 
also  according  to  prophecy.  Everyone  agreed  that  Fanny  was 
a  good  girl  and  deserved  her  luck.  She  gave  herself  no  airs, 
either  during  the  engagement  or  at  the  wedding.  Indeed,  she 
looked  a  little  shy  and  abashed  standing  by  her  husband's  side 
at  the  Marine  Hotel,  her  Brussels  veil  rolled  back  from  her  red 
hair,  while  Hurdicotts  and  Papillons  and  Fulleyloves  and  even 
the  Lincoln  Duchess,  offered  her  their  kid-gloved  hands. 

Monypenny  looked  flushed  and  rather  excited.  He  laughed 
and  talked  a  great  deal  with  his  Aldermen  and  Councillors, 


GUARDIAN  AND  GUIDE  237 

who  grouped  round  him  just  as  her  bridesmaids  grouped  round 
Fanny.  Decimus  Figg  was  best  man,  triumphant  but  a  little 
baffled.  Somehow  Fanny  was  not  at  all  the  sort  of  girl  he 
would  have  expected  his  friend  to  marry  .  .  .  and  had  she 
anything  to  do  with  the  confidence  Monypenny  had  made  him 
that  night  six  months  ago?  .  .  .  and  had  either  of  'em,  sup- 
posing there  were  two,  anything  to  do  with  that  extraordinary 
lapse  in  which  the  Mayor  had  given  Lewnes  and  Lusted  a  free 
hand  to  build  houses  like  wedding-cakes  on  Cuckoo  Hill?  .  .  . 
Figg's  Adam's  apple  worked  convulsively;  he  was  one  of  the 
people  who  believed  that  Monypenny  was  throwing  himself 
away,  and  hoped  that  he  would  not  throw  away  anything 
more  than  himself. 

Becket  prowled  round  the  company  rather  sadly.  He  had 
broken  his  retirement  to  come  to  Monypenny's  wedding,  and 
was  feeling  dazed  and  out  of  focus.  People  remarked  to  each 
other  on  his  altered  looks  —  evidently  the  loss  of  Morgan  had 
broken  him  more  than  the  loss  of  Emma. 

"Poor  soul,"  said  Fanny  to  her  bridegroom.  "It  must  be  ter- 
rible for  him  to  come  to  a  wedding,  of  all  things.  He  ought  to 
have  stayed  at  home;  you  wouldn't  have  been  hurt  —  would 
you,  Edward?  You'd  have  understood  —  she  hasn't  been  dead 
a  year." 


The  honeymoon  was  long  and  rambling.  The  doctor  had 
told  Monypenny  that  he  ought  to  have  quite  three  months 
away  from  Marlingate.  That  was  Dr.  Cooper,  the  new  doctor 
who  had  come  to  live  in  Becket  Grove.  He  told  Monypenny 
that  he  had  not  yet  entirely  shaken  off  the  effects  of  last  win- 
ter's illness,  and  that  the  fatigue  and  inertia  of  which  he  com- 
plained were  due  to  his  need  of  a  thorough  rest  and  change. 

"When  you  go  away  —  keep  away.  You  want  to  lead  a  thor- 
oughly different  life  from  what  you've  been  leading  for  the  last 


238  TAMARISK  TOWN 

ten  years;  you  want  travel,  change,  leisure — and  Mrs.  Mony- 
penny." 

Monypenny  did  his  best  to  carry  out  this  prescription.  His 
Mayoral  duties  forbade  his  entirely  severing  himself  from  Mar- 
lingate,  but  he  was  able  to  go  to  and  fro  by  rail  when  occasion 
demanded,  and  for  that  reason,  after  the  first  month,  they  never 
went  very  far  from  the  town.  The  first  month  was  spent  in 
Derbyshire,  first  at  Matlock  Bath,  and  afterwards  at  Buxton. 
Then  Monypenny  and  Fanny  came  south  to  Tunbridge  Wells, 
where  they  stayed  for  a  fortnight,  afterwards  travelling  desul- 
torily from  place  to  place  within  thirty  miles  of  Marlingate. 

Having  had  no  illusions,  Monypenny  found  marriage  very 
much  what  he  had  expected.  He  had  married  for  the  comfort 
of  Fanny's  presence,  just  as  a  man  might  break  the  crushing 
dark  of  a  cavern  by  lighting  a  candle.  The  tiny  flame  is  lost 
in  the  blackness,  yet  it  is  better,  a  thousand  times  better,  than 
nothing.  Some  women  might  have  outrun  his  calculations,  and 
surprised  him  when  he  possessed  them,  showing  new  qualities 
under  new  conditions,  but  Fanny  had  no  surprises — she  would 
always  be  the  same  comfortable,  kindly  soul,  loving  and  quiet, 
not  unintelligent  but  a  little  slow,  practical  and  infinitely  pa- 
tient. The  only  difference  was  that  he  occasionally  grew  a 
trifle  weary  of  her.  He  grew  tired  of  her  slow,  pleasant  talk, 
and  of  her  slow,  pleasant  mind  which  was  like  a  little  garden. 
He  was  careful  not  to  let  her  see  this,  for  his  gratitude  and  re- 
spect were  unabated;  he  merely  made  occasions  for  leaving  her 
with  any  nice  women  there  might  be  in  the  hotel,  while  he  ex- 
plored town  and  country. 

He  grew  familiar  with  the  places  where  they  stayed — Tun- 
bridge  Wells,  Maidstone,  Canterbury,  Ramsgate.  He  explored 
their  streets  and  their  surroundings,  and  in  time  they  came  to 
have  a  curious,  individual  life  of  their  own,  they  seemed  more 
alive  to  him  than  Marlingate.  Tunbridge  Wells  was  alive  in 
the  quiet  streets  dozing  round  the  neglected  Pantiles,  it  was 
like  an  ancient  beauty  living  on  her  memories;  Maidstone  was 


GUARDIAN  AND  GUIDE  239 

more  countrified  beside  the  river,  and  it  had  grass-grown  al- 
leys and  old  stones  that  smelled  sweet  in  the  sunshine  and  re- 
minded him  of  the  Marlingate  that  used  to  be  before  he 
changed  it — and  he  caught  himself  wishing  that  he  had  never 
changed  it,  but  had  let  it  drowse  on  in  the  sunshine  between 
the  hills  as  Maidstone  drowsed  beside  the  river.  .  .  .  He 
could  remember  Zuriel  Place  when  the  grass  grew  between  the 
cobbles  and  in  the  cracks  of  its  old  steps.  .  .  . 

Last  of  all  they  went  to  Ramsgate.  It  was  now  the  end  of 
October,  and  the  place  was  nearly  empty.  Only  a  few  visit- 
ors lurked  in  corners  of  the  hotel  or  dotted  the  promenade. 
Somehow  Ramsgate  reminded  Monypenny  of  Marlingate  even 
more  than  Maidstone,  but  not  of  Marlingate  as  it  used  to  be, 
nor  yet  of  Marlingate  as  it  was  now — it  seemed  to  link  him 
with  some  aspect  of  his  town  that  he  had  not  yet  realised.  He 
was  not  able  to  explore  it  much,  for  the  hotel  was  so  dreary 
that  he  did  not  care  to  leave  Fanny,  as  he  had  so  often  done 
in  the  more  cheerful  company  of  Tunbridge  Wells  and  other 
places.  He  made  up  his  mind  soon  to  go  back — Marlingate 
was  not  deserted  in  November;  on  the  contrary  its  winter  sea- 
son was  just  starting  in  circumstances  as  auspicious  as  ever. 

"Ramsgate  is  going  down,"  said  one  of  the  few  inmates  of 
the  hotel,  a  retired  solicitor  from  Chatham,  "and  I  blame  the 
Corporation.  They  ought  to  have  worked  the  winter  season 
better.  Every  respectable  watering  place  has  a  winter  season 
nowadays;  it's  the  fashion.  I  test  a  town  by  its  winter  sea- 
son. It's  easy  enough  to  get  people — of  a  sort — to  come  in 
Summer;  but  Winter's  altogether  different — you  must  make  a 
place  worth  coming  to  if  you're  to  have  visitors  in  Winter." 

"We  get  plenty  of  people  to  come  to  Marlingate  in  Winter, 
don't  we,  Edward?"  said  Fanny. 

"Yes,  my  love.  I've  always  tried  to  impress  the  Town  Com- 
mittee with  the  importance  of  the  Winter  Season." 

"Oh,  you're  one  of  the  big  pots  of  Marlingate,  are  you?" 
said  tha  man  from  Chatham.  "That's  a  town  which  has  had  a 


240  TAMARISK  TOWN 

wonderful  success.  I've  never  been  there — I'm  still  faithful 
to  Ramsgate — been  here  every  year  since  I  married.  I  remem- 
ber it  when  it  was  as  stylish  a  place  as  Marlingate — full  all 
the  year  round.  But  now  it's  going  down — there's  no  mistake 
about  it — it's  going  down." 

"How  do  you  account  for  it — this  decay  of  seaside  towns? 
One's  noticed  it  in  other  places  besides  Ramsgate" — and 
Monypenny  remembered  Belgarswick,  with  its  dirty,  empty 
windows,  and  cracking  walls. 

"It  would  be  hard  to  say — causes  vary  in  every  case.  Some- 
times the  Mayor  and  Corporation  bite  off  more  than  they  can 
chew  and  find  themselves  left  with  no  money  to  go  on  with. 
Sometimes  a  fellow  gets  in  and  cheapens  the  whole  show — 
that's  fatal.  Sometimes  there's  a  scandal  or  a  scare — bad 
drains  or  something.  Or  people  take  it  into  their  heads  that 
the  place  is  getting  ungenteel.  Once  drive  the  best  people 
away  and  the  rest  will  follow — the  quantity  always  follows 
the  quality  in  the  end." 

"Wei!,  Marlingate  isn't  likely  to  have  any  trouble  of  that 
kind,"  said  Fanny  comfortably. 

"No,"  said  the  man  from  Chatham;  "from  what  I  hear  I 
should  say  that  Marlingate  would  want  more  than  a  push  to 
send  it  over.  You  see  there's  always  been  plenty  of  money  in 
the  town,  and  the  authorities  have  gone  on  the  right  tack.  It 
will  see  Ramsgate  out,  and  Brighton  too.  It's  been  carefully 
built  on  a  solid  foundation — Egad!  I  should  think  it  would 
be  even  more  of  a  job  to  knock  Marlingate  down  than  it  was 
to  build  it  up." 

§12 

They  went  home  in  November.  Monypenny  had  declined 
the  Mayoralty  that  year,  and  at  his  suggestion  Vidler  was 
elected.  Thus  Fanny  was  doubly  honoured,  through  her  uncle 
and  through  her  husband,  for  though  Monypenny  was  no 


GUARDIAN  AND  GUIDE  241 

longer  Mayor,  he  remained,  as  always,  the  chief  man  in  Mar- 
lingate. 

A  year  ago  he  would  have  doubted  the  wisdom  of  putting 
Vidler  in  office.  The  Alderman  was  sensible,  loyal,  and  effi- 
cient, but  he  was  a  plain  man  of  the  people,  and  neither  his 
house  nor  his  wife  was  adapted  to  his  new  glory.  But  now 
Monypenny  had  reached  a  stage  when  his  municipal  feelings 
were  weak  enough  to  be  overridden  by  his  more  human  emo- 
tions. He  knew  that  Vidler  wanted  to  be  Mayor,  he  had  al- 
ways liked  Vidler,  and  he  knew  that  his  promotion  would  please 
Fanny.  So  he  gave  the  Corporation  the  necessary  hint,  and 
Vidler  was  elected,  with  Pelham  as  Deputy  Mayor. 

Fanny  was  perhaps  a  little  disappointed  that  her  husband 
should  thus  have  doffed  his  honour,  even  though  it  was  in  fa- 
vour of  her  uncle.  However,  she  never  showed,  by  look  or 
word,  the  smallest  dissatisfaction.  She  was  not  by  nature  a 
grumbler,  and  now  her  whole  strength  was  concentrated  on  the 
effort  to  please  her  husband.  For  by  this  time  she  saw  that  he 
did  not  love  her,  that  she  herself  was  not  enough  for  him,  and 
that  only  by  what  she  did,  instead  of  by  the  mere  fact  of  her 
being,  could  she  make  him  happy.  She  had  discovered  this 
fairly  early  in  their  honeymoon.  Marriage  had  not  been  for 
her,  as  it  had  been  for  him,  the  fulfilment  of  a  mediocre  ex- 
pectation. She  had  married  him  blinded  by  the  glamour  of 
her  love,  and  thinking  that  he  loved  her  too;  but  that  illusion 
could  not  survive  marriage  as  it  had  survived  courtship. 
Monypenny  was  invariably  kind  and  considerate,  but  she  was 
not  such  a  fool  as  to  be  content  merely  with  his  good  manners. 
Inexperienced  as  she  was  in  the  ways  of  love,  she  could  not 
help  seeing  that  his  few  moments  of  passion  did  not  ring  true. 
His  passion  was  a  ghost,  and  had  the  queer  effect  of  making 
her  feel  a  ghost  too.  When  he  kissed  her  she  seemed  to  lose 
her  substance,  to  acquire  in  her  own  eyes  the  unreality  which 
she  felt  she  had  in  his.  The  result  was  that,  in  spite  of  her 
deep  and  intensely  human  love  for  him,  she  shrank  a  little 


242  TAMARISK  TOWN 

from  his  caresses,  gradually  moulding  their  relations  to  a  calm- 
er expression,  in  which  she  was  his  servant,  and  waited  on  him, 
doing  him  constant,  loving  service,  from  the  ordering  of  his 
house  to  the  mending  of  his  fire.  She  was  most  at  her  ease 
when  she  had  him  in  his  armchair  by  the  hearth,  with  his  slim 
legs  stretched  to  the  coals,  and  his  cheek  resting  on  his  hand — 
while  she  sat  opposite  him  and  arranged  the  firescreen,  and 
spoke  at  intervals  in  her  slow  soft  voice,  being  careful  as  to 
what  and  how  she  spoke,  for  she  saw  now  that  she  bored  him 
occasionally. 

She  sometimes  wondered  why  he  didn't  love  her,  and  why, 
not  loving  her,  he  had  married  her.  She  did  not  think  he  had 
married  her  for  her  money.  It  was  not  according  to  his  nature, 
and  he  seemed  to  care  so  surprisingly  little  about  her  estates. 
After  some  thought  she  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had 
married  her  because  he  was  lonely,  though  even  that  did  not 
tell  her  why  he  had  chosen  her  out  of  all  the  beautiful  and  ele- 
gant young  ladies  of  Marlingate. 

Then  in  course  of  time  she  found  that  from  the  ghost  of  pas- 
sion that  he  had  given  her  was  going  to  come  the  great  reality 
of  her  life.  She  was  going  to  give  him  a  child.  His  life  was 
within  her,  even  though  she  had  never  had  his  love.  Out  of 
shadows  and  illusions  something  living  and  tangible  would 
spring,  and  her  patient,  submissive  love  for  her  husband  would 
bring  her  the  inestimable  reward  of  suffering  for  his  sake.  She 
would  have  dignity  too,  and  as  the  unloved  mother  of  his  child 
perhaps  be  happier  than  if  she  had  been  loved  and  childless. 
For  her  motherhood  was  her  love  expressed  in  its  ultimate, 
most  human  terms,  all  the  long  dumb  service  of  her  body  and 
her  soul  given  its  voice  at  last. 

But  in  the  midst  of  her  joy  she  wondered  whether  it  would 
be  joy  to  him  too.  She  doubted,  and  from  day  to  day  put  off 
telling  him.  She  had  no  definite  ground  for  her  doubts,  and 
when  at  last  she  saw  them  confirmed  by  the  blank,  rather 
startled  look  on  his  face,  she  did  not  understand  exactly  why 


GUARDIAN  AND  GUIDE  243 

he  was  resentful  at  this  coming  to  life  of  the  shadows.  He  ob- 
jected to  a  child  in  the  house,  perhaps,  or  he  was  too  deeply 
preoccupied  with  his  civic  affairs  to  care  for  another  respon- 
sibility. But  the  look  was  all  she  saw  of  protest,  the  deep  pro- 
test of  his  whole  nature  against  inexorable  life;  the  next  minute 
he  smiled,  and  kissed  her  gravely,  with  words  of  kindness  and 
congratulation. 

The  next  morning,  before  she  was  awake,  he  rose  noiselessly, 
and  went  out  on  Cuckoo  Hill.  The  day  was  pale  and  fresh, 
with  spills  of  primrose  in  the  flecked  March  sky,  over  which  the 
wind  was  hurrying,  restless  as  the  shadows  it  drove  across  the 
sea.  He  went  a  little  way  up  the  hillside  and. sat  down  by  a 
thicket  of  alder  and  bramble.  He  wanted  to  think;  he  could 
not  think  unless  he  was  alone,  and  now  he  never  seemed  to  be 
alone.  He  remembered  that  he  had  married  to  save  himself 
from  being  alone. 

§  13 

When,  at  last,  towards  the  end  of  September,  Monypenny 
held  his  newborn  son  in  his  arms,  he  felt  almost  afraid.  Once 
more  he  was  conscious  of  the  presence  of  the  invader,  and  his 
attitude  to  the  little  red,  wrinkled  thing  in  its  cocoon  of  blan- 
kets was  very  much  what  his  attitude  had  been  at  first  towards 
Morgan  le  Fay.  He  felt  once  more  in  the  presence  of  the  dim 
everlasting  things  that  he  dreaded — that  he  still  dreaded, 
though  he  had  definitely  renounced  them  for  his  time-born 
streets.  It  seemed  as  if,  in  spite  of  his  love  lying  dead  in  the 
grave  of  his  town,  he  had  to  acknowledge,  after  all,  the  tri- 
umph of  the  woods  and  the  sea. 

It  would,  perhaps,  be  difficult  to  associate  the  forces  of  life 
with  that  little  weak  infant,  whose  protesting  wail  was  the 
dwindled  echo  of  his  father's  lustier  emotions.  Life,  too,  did 
not  seem  to  have  much  to  do  with  Fanny,  as  she  lay  among 
the  shadows  of  the  great  bed,  worn  and  languid,  almost  too 
weak  to  smile.  Nevertheless,  Monypenny  felt  that  in  these 


244  TAMARISK  TOWN 

two  life  at  once  threatened  and  mocked  him.  All  his  inertia, 
his  indifference,  his  brooding,  his  drifting,  had  resulted  only  in 
fresh  life.  Life  was  springing  out  of  the  death  of  his  soul.  He 
was  afraid. 

Fanny  looked  at  him  anxiously.  She  knew  he  had  wanted  a 
girl,  and  hoped  he  was  not  very  much  disappointed.  She  her- 
self would  have  wanted  a  boy  if  her  longings  had  been  free. 
This  boy  was  to  be  called  Edward,  after  his  father. 

"Where  are  you  going,  my  love?'  she  asked,  as  he  laid  the 
child  back  at  her  side.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  had  been  a 
very  short  time  in  the  room. 

"I  have  a  Town  Committee  meeting  at  twelve." 

He  smiled  down  at  her  rather  sadly,  and  went  out.  She 
turned  her  head  on  the  pillow  towards  the  baby. 

Monypenny  found  the  Town  Committee  explosive  with  con- 
gratulations. It  consisted  now  of  Vidler,  Pelham,  Becket, 
Lusted,  Lewnes  and  Bond.  They  sat  in  one  of  the  smaller 
rooms  of  the  Town  Hall,  a  low  dim  chamber  to  which  the  sun- 
light came  chastened  by  the  borough  arms  in  the  windows. 

"Most  commendable  of  you,  Monypenny,"  said  Pelham,  "to 
have  torn  yourself  away  from  your  home  on  such  an  occasion." 

"How's  Fanny?"  asked  Vidler  bluntly. 

"I  expect  you're  glad  it's  a  boy,"  said  Lewnes;  "when  I 
heard  the  news  I  said  to  Mrs.  L.,  'There,  my  dear,  that's  an  ex- 
ample for  you  to  follow  next  October — after  keeping  me  wait- 
ing all  this  time,  don't  you  go  and  job  me  with  a  gal.'  " 

"I  hope  he  is  a  healthy  child,"  said  Becket,  "not  like  my  poor 
little  Lindsay." 

Monypenny  was  rather  stiff,  both  in  receiving  compliments 
and  answering  questions.  He  seemed  anxious  to  turn  from  his 
own  affairs  to  the  town's,  and  in  five  minutes  Tom  Potter  was 
reading  the  minutes  of  the  last  Committee  meeting. 

Marlingate  was  once  more  a-building  at  both  ends.  On  the 
Coney  Banks  Lewnes  and  Lusted  were  expressing  their  souls 
in  stucco,  bay-windows,  areas,  and  verandahs  like  broken  par- 


GUARDIAN  AND  GUIDE  245 

asols.  Behind  Becket  Grove  the  scaffolding  of  Park  Terrace 
rose  over  the  trees.  There  was  some  difficulty  about  workmen, 
for  since  the  abolition  of  the  America  Ground  the  artisan  pop- 
ulation of  Marlingate  had  dwindled  almost  to  the  point  of  dis- 
appearance. 

"There's  no  accommodation  for  work-people  here,"  said 
Lusted.  "We  should  have  thought  of  that  when  we  cleared 
away  the  America  Ground.  We  can't  do  without  working-men 
in  the  town." 

"We  could  get  some  in  from  elsewhere,  surely,"  said  Bond, 
"just  to  meet  the  present  emergency." 

"But  where  are  they  going  to  stop  while  they're  here?  We've 
no  lodgings  for  'em  either.  We're  so  mighty  genteel  nowadays 
— no  one  lets  lodgings  except  to  the  quality." 

"Wouldn't  any  of  the  fishermen  take  them  in?" 

Lusted,  Lewnes,  and  even  Monypenny,  laughed. 

"The  tanfrocks  wouldn't  care  tuppence  if  Marlingate  fell 
down  tomorrow,  as  long  as  Fish  Street  and  the  Stade  were  left 
standing.  You  won't  get  'em  to  move  an  inch  to  help  the  town 
-—it's  nothing  to  them." 

"But  if  they  were  paid.  .  .  ." 

"They  earn  plenty  of  money  at  the  nets." 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Lusted,  "that  what  we  want  here  in  Mar- 
lingate is  one  or  two  rows  of  decent  workmen's  dwellings.  They 
could  be  run  up  at  very  little  cost,  and  would  take  up  very  lit- 
tle room." 

"Hear!  hear!"  said  Lewnes. 

"Where  would  you  build  them?"  asked  Monypenny. 

"There's  room  between  High  Street  and  Fish  Street,  down 
by  the  Gut's — the  Marlin  Brook,"  suggested  Vidler. 

"Or  behind  High  Street,  at  the  bottom  of  the  Coney  Banks," 
said  Bond. 

"Which  would  complete  the  beauty  and  architectural  vari- 
ety of  the  Coney  Banks,"  said  Monypenny. 


246  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"Or  on  the  south  side  of  the  Cuckoo  Hill,  above  the  cliff," 
suggested  Lewnes. 

"Which  would  be  a  charming  prospect  from  the  Marine 
Gardens,"  said  Monypenny. 

Lewnes  was  irritated  by  the  Great  Man's  contempt.  He  had 
succeeded  in  dictating  to  him  once,  but  all  later  efforts  had 
been  nipped  by  a  blight  of  sarcasm.  He  raised  his  voice. 

"What  about  your  wife's  land  at  Old  Rumble?  It's  yours 
now — you  can  build  on  it." 

"I  probably  shall  build  on  it — but  not  workmen's  dwellings. 
Anything  of  that  kind,"  he  added,  "I  think  would  be  best  down 
at  the  Brook,  as  the  Mayor  has  suggested." 

Lewnes  looked  sulky,  but  the  rest  of  the  Committee  seemed 
as  willing  as  ever  to  submit  to  Monypenny's  dictation.  The 
motion  was  put  to  the  vote  and  carried,  and  the  Committee 
passed  on  to  considering  the  estimates  of  some  repairs  at  the 
waterworks. 

Afterwards,  as  he  walked  home,  Monypenny  asked  himself 
why  he  had  allowed  workmen's  cottages  to  be  built  by  the 
Marlin  Brook.  Their  erection  would  spoil  the  quiet  and 
pleasant  heart  of  the  town.  The  gardens  sloping  to  the  stream 
from  the  old  backs  of  Fish  Street  and  High  Street  were  as  old 
as  the  streets  themselves,  full  of  rich  soil  and  ancient  timber. 
They  stuffed  the  ribs  of  Marlingate  with  green,  from  them 
trees  and  bushes  and  borders  of  lupins  and  dahlias  straggled  in 
shady  strips  between  the  houses,  breaking  and  softening  the 
reds  and  blacks  of  the  town's  mass.  By  building — and  build- 
ing meanly — in  the  midst  of  all  this,  he  broke  up  the  spacious- 
ness of  Marlingate,  its  few  green  places.  True,  it  would  be 
better  to  build  here  than  on  Cuckoo  Hill  or  on  the  Coney 
Banks.  But  there  was  no  real  necessity  to  build  at  all.  The 
situation  did  not  require  it — with  a  little  care  and  arrangement, 
temporary  accommodation  could  have  been  found.  He  had  al- 
ways meant  to  keep  Marlingate  free  from  the  slums  that  in- 
vaded sooner  or  later  most  seaside  towns,  the  mean  streets 


GUARDIAN  AND  GUIDE  247 

which  prosperity  seemed  invariably  to  spawn  at  its  back  doors 
— and  here  he  was,  deliberately  blessing  such  corruption.  He 
could  have  prevented  it;  he  had  absolute  power  with  the  Com- 
mittee, and  though  Vidler  was  now  the  head,  he  was  still  the 
brains  of  the  town.  But  he  had  given  way — not  to  the  acutest 
form  of  evil,  it  is  true,  nevertheless  he  had  tolerated  it.  It  was 
all  part  of  the  new  spirit  which  had  put  Vidler  into  the  May- 
oral office  and  sanctioned  Lewnes's  preposterous  building  on 
the  Coney  Banks.  This  was  the  third  blow  he  had  struck  at 
the  thing  he  used  to  love. 

§  14 

Well,  he  did  not  much  care.  It  was  nothing  to  him  if  Mar- 
lingate  went  the  way  of  Ramsgate  or  Belgarswick.  Such  was  a 
common  fate  of  seaside  towns.  Then  he  remembered  the 
words  of  the  Chatham  solicitor — "Egad!  it  would  be  even  more 
of  a  job  to  knock  Marlingate  down  than  it  was  to  build  it  up." 
Perhaps,  after  all,  his  indifference  would  not  hurt  it  much. 
People  were  so  stupid — they  suffered  the  second-rate  gladly; 
only  the  fifth-rate  or  the  sixth-rate  would  really  sicken  them. 
The  workmen's  houses  and  Lewnes's  houses  would  not  even 
make  the  town  second-rate,  they  would  merely  be  a  dulling  of 
its  lustre,  like  breathing  on  glass.  It  would  continue  to  flour- 
ish, with  the  bones  of  Morgan  le  Fay  in  its  heart.  It  had 
eaten  her  alive  ...  it  had  eaten  him  too;  it  could  not  fail  to 
grow  fat. 

As  he  walked  up  the  High  Street,  treading  the  yellow  leaves 
into  the  pavement,  it  seemed  as  if  the  town  wore  the  grimace 
he  had  seen  on  it  in  the  days  of  his  fever.  There  was  some- 
thing mocking  and  disgusting  in  its  prosperity,  lying  there 
licked  by  the  sun,  sending  up  complacently  the  smoke  of  its 
hundred  fires.  A  year  ago  he  had  said,  "Marlingate  is  dead," 
but  now  he  knew  that  it  was  only  Morgan  who  was  dead.  Mar- 
lingate lived  and  thrived  and  fattened,  with  her  bones  in  its 
heart. 


248  TAMARISK  TOWN 

He  did  not  care  what  happened  to  it.  Or  rather — he  did 
care.  The  passive,  almost  unwilling,  indifference  of  months, 
had  passed  through  disgust  into  active  hostility.  He  knew 
that  he  would  like  to  injure  Marlingate — to  make  it  dingy  with 
mean  streets,  and  ridiculous  with  Lewnes's  houses,  to  fill  it 
with  third-rate  people,  to  see  it  like  Belgarswick,  with  dirty, 
empty  windows  and  cracking  walls.  He  would  like  to  spoil 
its  ancient  picturesqueness  and  modern  elegance — he  would 
like  to  avenge  the  beauty  and  life  and  imagination  it  had  de- 
voured. He  would  like  to  smash  it. 

He  was  surprised  at  the  violence  of  his  emotion.  Hitherto 
he  had  drooped  before  his  town,  with  no  warmer  feeling  than 
regret — regret  because  he  had  loved  it  so  much  and  had  sac- 
rificed to  it  in  vain  and  now  loved  it  no  longer.  But  today  he 
hated  it.  He  saw  it  as  a  thing  that  had  cheated  and  betrayed 
him.  It  had  cheated  his  ambition  and  betrayed  his  love.  His 
joy,  his  hope,  his  glory  lay  dead  in  its  streets.  Revenge  had 
been  lurking  with  despair  in  that  void  under  his  thoughts,  and 
now  it  was  kindling  his  dead  emotions.  He  felt  alive  again, 
and  fused  with  a  queer  resolve  and  strength.  For  once  more  a 
passion  had  moved  him,  though  it  was  a  passion  of  hatred  for 
all  that  he  had  formerly  loved. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  on  his  doorstep,  trying  to  recover 
himself  before  he  went  in  to  Fanny.  Something  was  crying 
out  to  him,  harsh  and  exultant.  He  felt  that  he  had  again  a 
purpose,  something  to  live  for,  and  at  first  he  scarcely  saw  the 
bitterness  of  the  new  conditions. 

He  mastered  his  excitement  before  long,  and  went  upstairs 
to  his  wife.  Fanny  noticed  a  difference  in  him — he  seemed  to 
have  acquired  since  he  went  out  a  new  elation  and  a  new  hard- 
ness. He  stretched  himself  on  the  bed  beside  her,  and  began 
talking  about  the  Town  Committee  meeting,  and  the  work- 
men's cottages  that  he  had  decided  to  build  down  by  the  Mar- 
lin  Brook. 


GUARDIAN  AND  GUIDE  249 

"But  won't  they  spoil  the  pretty  gardens  at  the  back  of 
High  Street?"  asked  Fanny. 

Monypenny  opened  his  mouth  to  say  "I  don't  care  if  they 
do,"  but  bargained  with  a  few  remarks  on  the  necessity  for 
workmen's  dwellings  and  the  scarcity  of  building  space  in  Mar- 
lingate. 

"You  could  build  them  on  the  edge  of  Old  Rumble,  behind 
the  Totty  Lands.  You  know,  Edward,  I've  always  wanted  you 
to  build  on  my  land." 

aSo  I  shall,"  said  Monypenny,  "so  I  shall — and  on  the  south 
side  of  Cuckoo  Hill,  and  by  the  churchyard,  at  the  bottom  of 
the  Coney  Banks.  I'm  grateful  to  the  Town  Committee  for 
making  me  some  valuable  suggestions." 

"What  a  lot  of  building  there'll  be!" 

"Yes — too  much  for  Lusted.  I'll  have  to  get  a  London  con- 
tractor in.  And  now — "  sliding  off  the  bed — "give  me  the  new 
citizen.  I  want  to  look  at  him." 

He  found  that  he  was  grotesquely  linking  his  son's  birth  with 
this  rebirth  of  himself  in  sinister  emotion.  Poor  little  Edward 
was  taken  from  his  warm  place  beside  Fanny,  and  laid  in  his 
father's  hard,  awkward  arms.  He  howled. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  BURNING  HEART 

§i 

THE  years  piled  themselves  between  Monypenny  and  the 
golden  days — the  days  of  his  love  for  Morgan  and  his  love  for 
Marlingate.  He  was  now  walled  into  the  new  conditions.  It 
seemed  a  different  man  who  had  loved  Morgan  Becket  in  the 
woods,  and  had  walked  young  and  free  in  the  town's  streets, 
shaping  their  glory. 

He  was  no  longer  actively  unhappy.  Custom  and  conven- 
tion, which  had  always  clipped  and  trimmed  his  enterprises, 
were  now  at  hand  to  regulate  his  sorrow.  He  found  his  usual 
comfort  in  the  solemn,  heavy,  beautiful  order  of  his  home — in 
his  wife  and  child — and  in  his  various  municipal  interests,  revi- 
talised now  with  his  new  malice. 

People  said  that  he  was  growing  very  sober  and  solemn.  The 
little  flare  of  youth,  which  had  amazed  his  worthies  in  the  year 
of  the  Town  Park  and  the  Marine  Gardens,  seemed  quite  to 
have  burnt  out,  leaving  more  than  the  usual  amount  of  ash. 
Young  ladies  actually  said  that  he  was  growing  dull — but  that 
was  probably  only  because  he  was  married. 

Yet  it  was  true  that  marriage  had  a  little  dimmed  him.  It 
had  blunted  those  ideals  of  austerity  which  had  kept  his  spirit 
keen  and  bright  in  the  midst  of  bodily  comfort.  Its  effect, 
however,  was  only  on  the  surface — inwardly  it  made  far  less 
difference  to  his  habit  than  might  have  been  expected.  Fanny's 
personality  was  not  strong  enough  to  stamp  her  husband's  ever 
so  faintly.  She  had  not  even  moulded  the  domestic  routine  of 

250 


THE  BURNING  HEART  2511 

Gun  Garden  House  into  a  more  feminine  shape.  The  heavy 
hospitality  remained  with  the  mahogany  furniture,  West  still 
governed  Monypenny's  wardrobe,  and  Mrs.  Earl  his  kitchen. 
Fanny's  own  maid  fluttered  like  a  scared  shadow  in  the  gloom, 
and  gradually  the  mistress  seemed  to  efface  herself  with  her, 
to  fade  into  the  background  like  Pepper's  ghost. 

Her  husband  was  invariably  kind,  unfailingly  patient  and 
considerate,  but  his  queer,  shadowy  passion  seemed  to  be  devi- 
talising her,  to  be  making  her  one  of  his  dreams.  She  was 
afraid  of  his  love,  not  because  it  was  too  virile,  but  because  it 
was  ghostly,  the  shadow  of  a  flame.  As  for  her  own  love,  it 
was,  of  itself,  unable  to  sustain  her — it  was  an  evaporation  of 
herself  into  the  empty  air,  so  that  in  spirit  she  slowly  faded, 
till  she  became  one  of  the  many  ghosts  of  that  dark  house. 

Monypenny  felt  her  going  from  him,  and  sometimes  wanted 
to  hold  her  back,  for  she  was  sweet  and  comfortable;  but  he 
lacked  the  power.  She  seemed  to  exist  only  in  what  he  needed 
of  her,  and  he  needed  so  little.  He  wondered  why  she  had 
faded  out  like  this — in  the  days  of  his  wooing  she  had  been 
substantial  enough,  the  only  substantial  thing  in  the  world. 
Could  it  be  that  the  love  which  he  still  bore  for  the  dead  wo- 
man was  disintegrating  her,  destroying  her — swamping  her  in 
each  one  of  his  perfunctory  caresses,  like  Niagara  pouring  into 
a  tin  mug? 

The  boy  had  a  sturdy  life  of  his  own,  but  here  the  dead  had 
no  claims — at  least  so  it  seemed  at  present,  though  Monypenny 
knew  how  much  he  had  belonged  to  Morgan  even  in  the  child's 
begetting.  Perhaps  one  day  she  would  demand  her  share  of 
Ted  ...  or  passionately  blot  him  out  like  his  mother. 

Monypenny's  attitude  towards  him  was  rather  nervous  and 
aloof.  He  loved  him,  but  he  did  not  understand  children,  and 
he  was  not  a  man  to  whom  the  bare  fact  of  fatherhood  is  an 
illumination.  On  the  contrary  he  would  have  preferred  not  to 
see  himself  reproduced.  There  was  already  one  materialisa- 
tion of  himself  in  existence,  and  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  de- 


252  TAiMARISK  TOWN 

stroy  it.  It  confounded  the  issues  to  have  this  secondary  re- 
production. 

So  at  first  he  left  Ted  to  his  wife.  In  that  province  she 
should  dominate,  who  kept  the  background  in  all  others.  But 
as  the  little  boy  grew,  he  seemed  to  grow  out  of  the  corner  into 
which  his  father  had  shut  him;  he  forced  himself  on  Mony- 
penny's  notice,  not  because  he  had  a  forceful  character,  but  be- 
cause of  the  eager  life  within  him  which  would  not  be  re- 
pressed. He  was  an  attractive  child,  too.  In  face  he  was  like 
his  father,  with  his  swarthy  skin  and  dark  eyes,  and  the  prom- 
ise of  his  long  chin;  in  character  he  was  more  like  Fanny,  gen- 
tle and  good-tempered,  though  every  now  and  then  Monypen- 
ny  caught  a  glimpse  of  something  which  was  certainly  not 
Fanny's,  and  which  as  the  years  went  by  he  recognized  as  the 
inheritance  of  his  own  passionate  idealism. 

Then  he  was  afraid.  Suppose  that  Ted,  when  he  grew  up, 
should  love  Marlingate  as  he  had  loved  it  ...  suppose  that 
in  it  he  should  seek  and  not  find,  ask  and  not  receive,  knock 
and  not  be  answered.  Ted,  like  his  father,  might  live  to  break 
his  heart  on  the  town's  stones. 

§2 

Monypenny  now  definitely  schemed  against  Marlingate.  It 
was  his  only  possible  response  to  the  new  conditions;  it  was, 
besides,  a  new  focus  of  the  broken  and  scattered  rays  of  his 
imagination.  It  had  a  colouring  of  mania,  which  his  earlier 
ambitions  had  lacked,  being  in  the  normal,  constructive  course 
of  nature,  whereas  this  was  a  purpose  to  destroy,  and,  more- 
over, to  destroy  what  he  himself  had  created.  But  he  was  quite 
clear-headed — indeed,  his  present  outlook  was  more  balanced 
and  more  normal  than  those  terrible,  shadowy  months  of  lan- 
guor and  indifference.  Besides,  the  sense  of  tragedy  was  re- 
lieved— when  he  looked  back,  he  felt  that  there  was  nothing 
more  heart-rending,  more  pathetic  in  his  life  than  those  blows 


THE  BURNING  HEART  253 

he  had  unconsciously  struck  at  the  town,  those  occasions  on 
which,  out  of  his  indifference,  he  had  dishonoured  it.  Now  at 
least  his  attitude  was  deliberate,  it  had  the  dignity  of  a  cam- 
paign. He  had  turned,  by  his  own  power,  a  humble  fishing- 
village  into  one  of  the  most  select  and  prosperous  resorts  in 
England;  by  that  same  power  he  could  transform  his  new  cre- 
ation into  what  he  conceived  as  the  lowest,  most  loathsome 
form  of  municipal  existence — a  third-rate  seaside  town,  a  haunt 
of  trippers,  without  beauty,  order,  or  seemliness.  He,  Marlin- 
gate's  builder,  its  guardian  and  guide,  was  novt  leagued  against 
it  with  the  woods  and  the  sea — he  would  work  with  these  to 
avenge  their  martyr. 

He  saw  the  difficulties  of  his  task.  It  would  indeed  be  a  big- 
ger job  to  destroy  Marlingate  than  it  had  been  to  build  it.  It 
was  not  merely  a  town;  it  was  a  society,  a  unit  of  civilisation, 
a  solid  lump  of  prosperity,  as  hard  to  disintegrate  as  a  rock. 
There  was  no  use  merely  staying  his  hand  and  letting  its  own 
vulgar  elements  wreck  it — there  was  little  hope  of  its  bursting 
from  noxious  gases  within.  Lusted  and  Lewnes  might  have 
common  ideas,  but  they  would  not  go  far  of  themselves,  and 
Vidler,  Becket,  and  Pelham  had  strong  notions  on  the  subjects 
of  dignity  and  gentility,  and  would  be  sure  to  suppress  the  Pro- 
gressive rowdies  long  before  they  had  passed  the  danger  line. 
It  is  true  that  in  their  eagerness  for  mean  streets  they  had 
failed  to  appreciate  the  town's  artistic  unity,  but  a  few  slums 
would  not  damage  Marlingate — had  not  damaged  it,  though 
now  they  choked  its  heart  and  blotched  its  seaward  head  and 
strewed  the  high  ground  behind  it,  where  rows  of  yellow  brick 
cottages  tilted  across  the  Totty  Lands.  After  all,  Marlingate 
had  survived  the  America  Ground  in  more  fragile,  uncertain 
times  than  these.  It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  its  fashion- 
able visitors  and  residents  would  be  as  sensitive  as  Monypenny 
to  this  new  ugliness.  If  ugliness  was  to  devastate  Marlingate 
it  must  be  an  ugliness  that  ate  into  the  core  of  its  life  and 
blighted  its  assemblies,  and  if  an  alien  class  was  to  overflow 


254  TAMARISK  TOWN 

by  its  intrusion  the  town's  social  integrity,  it  must  be  a  class 
which  could  invade  the  fashionable  sanctuaries  and  defile  them, 
not  a  class  which  merely  camped  at  the  gates  and  cleaned  the 
doorsteps. 

A  more  effective  way  would  be  to  enlarge  recklessly  the 
borough's  residential  district.  Hitherto  he  had  always  been 
careful  to  keep  a  modest  scope,  knowing  that  over-expansion  is 
often  the  forerunner  of  dilapidation.  He  had  planned  Pelham 
Square  and  its  surroundings  as  his  last  piece  of  building  in 
Marlingate,  but  he  saw  now  that  he  could  develop  the  idea  into 
numberless  deteriorations.  Flanking  the  greatness  of  Pelham 
Squareland  Lewnes  Avenue  and  Becket  Grove  could  be  smaller 
houses  for  smaller  people — this  would  debase  the  residential 
standard,  and  where  that  declines,  the  transient  order  soon  fol- 
lows. Marlingate  had  good  residents.  Many  people  had 
houses  in  Brooke  Street  and  Clarges  Street  and  also  at  Mar- 
lingate. The  Corporation  had  always  .put  the  residents  before 
the  visitors  in  their  schemes,  and  to  this  the  solid  basis  of  their 
success  was  due. 

Monypenny  saw  that  to  strike  at  the  residents  would  also 
be  a  blow  at  the  Winter  season,  at  onca  the  foundation  and  the 
token  of  progress  in  seaside  towns.  Marlingate's  aristocracy 
was  mainly  resident  in  Winter,  and  would  begin  to  dwindle  as 
soon  as  it  saw  its  dignity  being  soiled  at  the  edges.  Here 
Lewnes  had  already  done  some  useful  work.  He  had  built  a 
terrace  of  monstrosities  on  the  Coney  Banks,  and  was  letting 
it  rather  indifferently  to  small  professional  people,  and  to  one 
or  two  Fish  Street  tradesmen  who  had  been  tempted  by  its 
pagoda'd  bays  to  flout  custom  and  retire  there  instead  of  to 
Mount  Idle.  "Balmoral,"  "Midlothian"  and  "The  Gram- 
pians," with  their  stucco,  areas,  and  hideous  painted  balconies, 
were  too  mean  a  parody  of  Mayfair  and  Belgravia  to  attract 
residents  from  those  quarters.  Mayfair  and  Belgravia  pre- 
ferred the  houses  in  half-built  Park  Terrace — tile-roofed,  red- 


THE  BURNING  HEART  255 

walled,  square-corniced,  their  casements  raking  through  the 
Town  Park  to  the  shadow-walk  of  the  sea. 

Monypenny  resolved  to  propagate  "Balmoral,"  "Midlothian" 
and  "The  Grampians."  They  and  their  homogeneous  inhabit- 
ants should  outrage  polite  sensibilities  in  Becket  Grove  and 
Pelham  Square  as  well  as  on  the  Coney  Banks.  This  would  in- 
volve a  heavy  expenditure.  When  his  original  plans  for  Pel- 
ham  Square  and  its  surroundings  were  finished  he  would  have 
built  over  the  whole  of  his  estate.  More  land  would  have  to  be 
bought,  more  money  borrowed  from  Becket.  The  original  mort- 
gage expired  in  '75.  There  would  be  no  difficulty  about  re- 
newing it,  but  Monypenny's  heart  shrank  a  little  from  the 
thought  of  involving  Becket  in  a  transaction  which  might  lead 
to  heavy  loss.  He  was  beginning  now  to  realise  the  financial 
implications  of  his  new  purpose.  If  the  rise  of  Marlingate  had 
made  the  fortune  of  all  its  notables,  so  that  Lewnes's  shop  was 
double-fronted  in  plate  glass,  and  Pelham  drove  behind  sleek 
greys,  and  Becket  patriotically  re-invested  every  year  his  local 
thousands  in  local  funds,  the  fall  of  Marlingate  would  bring  the 
ruin  of  all  these  good,  comfortable,  people,  who  trusted  him  as 
their  shepherd  and  the  fattener  of  their  lives.  Well,  he  could 
not  help  it — he  would  fall  with  them.  He  would  be  ruined  with 
Becket  and  Breeds  and  Pelham  and  Lewnes  and  Lusted.  It 
would  merely  be  Samson  pulling  down  the  roof  on  himself  as 
well  as  on  the  Philistines.  .  .  .  "And  Samson  said  'Let  me  die 
with  the  Philistines.' " 

§3 

His  great  difficulty  was  Decimus  Figg.  Figg  had  not  the 
slightest  intention  of  building  Balmorals  and  Midlothians.  Not 
that  Monypenny  made  any  such  crude  suggestion,  but  when 
the  architect  brought  him  his  plans  for  Pelham  Square,  he  be- 
gan an  argument  for  smaller  houses. 

"Then  you'll  get  smaller  people,"  said  Figg. 

"Why?" 


256  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"Well,  gentlefolk  with  small  establishments  don't  come 
trapesing  down  to  the  seaside  in  Winter.  You'll  merely  get 
retired  grocers." 

But  Monypenny  was  obstinate.  He  wanted,  he  said,  to  en- 
large the  original  idea  of  Pelham  Square.  The  Corporation 
had  decided  to  build  on  a  larger  scale  than  it  had  at  first  con- 
templated, and  was  already  in  negotiation  for  the  Braybrook 
Farm  estate,  which  adjoined  the  Old  Rumble  Lands  on  the 
northwest.  If  it  was  to  do  this  it  could  not  afford  to  throw 
away  money  on  houses  for  Lords.  These  big  houses  would 
not  let  so  easily  as  smaller  ones.  Besides,  the  estimates  had 
already  exceeded  those  laid  down  by  the  Town  Committee. 

Figg  grew  restive  and  protestant. 

"The  streets  you're  building  now  are  to  be  the  finest  in 
the  town.  They're  going  to  crown  your  work — all  the  building 
you've  done  so  far  has  been  only  to  lead  up  to  them.  If 
they're  unworthy,  the  whole  thing  will  be  an  anti-climax.  I 
tell  you  this  is  a  work  of  art,  not  a  commercial  transaction. 
Why  d'you  want  to  go  messing  the  place  up  with  houses?  It's 
quality,  not  quantity,  that's  always  been  the  motto  here. 
Lewnes  has  been  making  a  fool  of  you  again,  and  now  you'll 
spoil  the  town  with  a  piece  of  dirty  bathos." 

Monypenny  took  his  protest,  with  all  its  appending  insults, 
in  surprisingly  good  part.  But  he  stood  firm,  and  the  Town 
Council  supported  him.  It  had  always  been  inclined  to  jib 
at  Figg's  refined  and  high  falutin'  ideas,  and  had  accepted 
them  only  out  of  its  confidence  in  Monypenny;  and  now  the 
great  man  himself  was  against  the  architect.  Figg  had  gone 
a  bit  too  far  even  for  the  Mayor — he  was.  Mayor  from  1869 
to  1872. 

In  the  end  it  was  decided  to  let  Pelham  Square  and  its  ap- 
pendages stand  as  Figg  had  designed  them,  with  a  few  small 
modifications  on  the  score  of  economy.  But  the  streets  of  lesser 
houses  on  the  Braybrook  land  were  given  over  to  a  triumphant 


THE  BURNING  HEART  257 

Lusted,  Figg  having  refused,  with  many  oaths,  to  take  a  hand 
in  them. 

For  some  months  he  was  hardly  on  speaking  terms  with 
Monypenny. 

"It's  his  doing,"  he  said  once  to  Lady  Cockstreet,  "and  it'll 
spoil  the  town.  What's  he  want  to  go  making  money  for? 
We've  got  plenty.  By  Jove,  when  that  Pelham  Square  was 
finished,  I  could  have  said  'Nunc  Dimittis,'  and  so  could  he. 
But  now  he's  gone  and  messed  up  the  whole  thing  with  that 
Braybrook  estate.  He's  turned  commercial,  and  it'll  be  the 
ruin  of  him  and  the  place  too." 

"But  I  don't  see  why  you  should  blame  him  especially.  The 
whole  Corporation  was  against  you." 

Figg  snorted. 

"Do  you  think  that  would  have  mattered  if  the  Mayor  had 
been  for  me?  He'd  soon  have  taught  'em  their  business.  Why, 
that  was  what  he  did  when  I  first  came  down  here — took  my 
part  against  them  all.  They  wanted  me  to  build  things  like 
the  Crystal  Palace  and  the  Steyn,  but  he  was  on  my  side,  and, 
between  us,  we  saved  the  town.  We  could  have  done  it  again 
now.  But  he's  changed.  Look  at  him  building  those  horrors 
on  the  Totty  Lands  and  letting  Lewnes  and  Lusted  spoil  the 
Coney  Banks  with  their  abominations!  He's  out  after  rents 
instead  of  glory.  He's  changed.  He's  commercial.  He's 
married." 

Lady  Cockstreet  laughed. 

"So  really  you  put  all  the  blame  on  poor  little  inoffensive 
Fanny." 

"Not  directly.  But  marriage  is  a  quencher  of  imagination. 
Besides  .  .  .  what  did  he  want  to  throw  himself  away  like 
that  for?" 

"I  like  Fanny.  She's  a  pleasant  girl,  and  quite  devoted  to 
him." 

"No  doubt — and  has  as  much  inspiration  in  her  as  a  pudding. 
She's  so  devoted  that  he's  got  fat  and  clogged  and  uxorious. 


258  TAMARISK  TOWN 

He  doesn't  care  a  rap  for  beauty  and  fitness,  or  for  Marlingate, 
except  on  rent  day.  And  now  there's  a  child.  Damn! — I  beg 
your  pardon." 

§4 

After  a  time  Figg's  ruffled  feathers  were  smoothed,  and  he 
was  once  more  to  be  seen  eating  his  mutton  and  drinking  his 
wine  at  Gun  Garden  House,  paying  insincere  compliments  to 
Fanny,  whom  he  still  looked  upon  as  the  arch  enemy  of  Mar- 
lingate, and  even  patting  the  cheek  of  little  Ted  and  asking  him 
what  he  would  be  when  he  was  a  man.  To  which  Ted  once 
unexpectedly  replied  "an  architeck,"  but  on  being  questioned 
was  found  to  have  no  idea  as  to  what  the  word  meant  beyond 
that  "it  was  the  same  as  Mr.  Figg."  He  had  acquired  a  deep 
and  silent  admiration  for  Mr.  Figg  with  his  pipe  and  plaid 
trousers,  and  his  arms  that  waved  like  windmill  sails  when  he 
got  excited  after  dinner,  displaying  big  bony  wrists  covered  with 
red  hair.  Ted  hoped  that  when  he  grew  up  he  would  have 
hairy  hands  like  Mr.  Figg,  and  chiefly  for  that  reason  wanted 
to  be  an  architect.  He  once  asked  his  father  what  he  would 
have  to  do  to  become  one,  but  Monypenny  had  answered  eva- 
sively, and  Ted  after  some  brooding  had  put  the  subject  out  of 
his  mind,  especially  when  he  discovered  that  Phineas  Gallop, 
who  was  not  an  architect  but  fisherman,  had  not  only  his  hands 
but  his  chest  covered  with  beautiful  thick  hair. 

Monypenny  had  been  a  little  startled  by  his  son's  answer  to 
Figg's  question.  This  child  of  his  could  not  be  ignored,  in 
spite  of  his  meek,  self-effacing  disposition.  Suppose  he  should 
grow  up  to  frustrate  his  father's  plans  .  .  .  The  only  danger 
he  had  hitherto  feared  was  that  Ted  should  love  Marlingate 
too  well  for  his  own  sake.  But  now  he  saw  a  new  set  of  com- 
plications. Already  the  boy  was  showing  an  eye  for  beauty, 
and  an  eager  pursuit  of  it  in  the  naive  forms  that  appealed  to 
his  imagination.  His  inheritance  from  Fanny  was  evidently 
more  of  mood  than  of  tendency,  and  Monypenny  could  per- 


THE  BURNING  HEART  259 

ceive  in  his  son's  mind  ardours  and  melancholies  that  were  his 
own  bequest.  Ted  might  not  only  love  Marlingate,  but  work 
and  fight  for  it.  It  was  probable  that  by  the  time  he  grew  up 
the  town's  deterioration  would  have  become  obvious,  and  that 
he  would  oppose  it  with  all  the  alert,  questing,  constructive 
power  he  had  inherited  from  his  father. 

Monypenny  was  goaded  by  these  alarms  to  press  on  his  ac- 
tion against  Marlingate.  He  must  have  the  wheel  of  destruc- 
tion well  turning  before  Ted  grew  up  to  put  his  spoke  in  it.  He 
groped  for  a  larger  plan  than  a  mere  abasing  of  his  own  high 
standards  into  cheapness  and  utility.  He  remembered  the  Pier 
which  had  been  discussed  in  the  Town  Council  on  earlier  oc- 
casions, but  had  been  rejected  by  all  the  more  chaste  imagina- 
tions of  the  borough  fathers,  as  opening  a  seaward  gate  on  the 
unrefinement  of  other  towns.  The  Pier  must  be  revived,  and 
this  time  without  rejection. 

His  difficulty  lay  in  the  means,  for  the  great  difference  be- 
tween his  old  schemes  and  the  new  was  that  the  latter  could  be 
worked  only  secretly.  The  old  ambition  had  been  simply  an 
affair  of  direction,  but  now  he  must  wait  on  opportunities,  and 
was  occasionally  in  want  of  a  stalking  horse.  This  need  for 
craft  attracted  him  and  salted  his  purpose.  He  felt  damn 
clever.  He  was  at  first  uncertain  whether  to  announce  a  con- 
version and  re-introduce  the  Pier  himself,  with  certain  safe- 
guards (which  he  could  afterwards  get  rid  of),  or  whether  to 
trap  some  Alderman  or  Councillor  into  sponsorship.  Lewnes 
had  always  been  an  enthusiastic  promoter  of  the  Pier  scheme, 
but  Monypenny  realised  that  his  opinion  would  not  carry  much 
weight  with  the  aristocracy  of  the  Corporation.  He  thought  of 
Becket,  and  decided  to  sound  him.  Becket  was  a  man  of  good 
position  and  high  connections;  and  Becket  was  a  fool. 

But  to  his  surprise,  he  found  him  opposed  to  the  plan  with 
more  vigour  and  sense  than  he  would  have  expected.  It  is  true 
that  his  chief  objection  was  a  sentimental  one — it  seemed  that 
at  some  time  or  other  Morgan  had  expressed  her  contempt  of 


260  TAMARISK  TOWN 

piers — but  Becket's  convictions  were  never  so  firm  as  when 
grounded  in  sentiment.  Besides,  he  had  other  reasons — a  pier 
would  vulgarise  the  town  by  destroying  its  remoteness  and  ad- 
mitting the  rowdier  elements  of  other  resorts,  and  it  was  quite 
unnecessary,  Marlingate  being  already  supplied  with  a  prom- 
enade, a  concert-hall,  and  a  prospective  Winter  Garden;  and 
it  would  spoil  the  beauty  and  symmetry  of  the  Marine  Parade. 
In  fact  he  had  all  the  reasons  that  had  made  Monypenny  ex- 
tinguish the  project  five  years  ago. 

§5 

Becket  had  taken  a  fancy  to  little  Ted  Monypenny,  and  the 
child  spent  much  of  his  time  in  the  tall  black  house  on  the 
Coney  Banks,  where  once  his  father's  steps  had  sounded  so 
youthfully  on  garden  walk  and  narrow  stair.  Lindsay  Becket 
was  two  or  three  years  older  than  Ted,  but  she  did  not  despise 
him,  for  there  were  few  children  of  her  own  age  in  the  town, 
except  those  who  came  only  for  a  month  or  two  and  were  gone 
as  soon  as  known.  Becket 's  family  by  his  first  wife  were  now 
grown  up  and  scattered.  Louisa  had  married  a  stock-broker, 
and  Charlotte  a  clergyman.  Arthur  was  in  London  reading  for 
the  bar,  and  James  was  at  Oxford.  So  Lindsay  was  alone  with 
her  father  and  her  governess,  and  was  glad  even  of  Ted's  mean 
fellowship,  especially  since  her  advantage  in  years  counterbal- 
anced his  advantage  in  sex  and  made  her  the  leader  in  all  their 
games.  Not  that  Lindsay  tyrannised — she  was  a  good-hu- 
mored, rather  sentimental  little  girl,  with  her  father's  soul  look- 
ing out  of  her  through  her  mother's  eyes — but  Ted  really 
seemed  to  like  being  dictated  to,  though  sometimes  he  would 
put  on  queer  frenzies  of  command,  which  she  in  her  turn  liked 
a  little. 

Becket  took  pleasure  in  watching  the  children  play,  though 
his  presence  sometimes  spoiled  their  games.  One  could  not 
play  properly  with  grown-ups  looking  on — even  Miss  King,  the 


THE  BURNING  HEART  261 

governess,  was  a  nuisance.  Nevertheless  Ted  endured  him,  be- 
cause at  the  end  of  the  afternoon  he  often  gave  him  sixpence 
or  a  shilling,  which  the  little  boy  spent  on  paints  or  pencils,  for 
his  world  was  full  of  lovely  things  which  had  a  queer  knack 
of  hurting  him  till  he  had  put  them  down,  more  or  less  gro- 
tesquely, on  paper. 

Sometimes  Becket  brought  Lindsay  to  Gun  Garden  House, 
but  this  was  not  such  good  fun  as  going  to  the  Coney  Banks. 
For  Gun  Garden  House  was  so  gloomy  and  heavy  that 
it  seemed  to  weigh  down  their  games — hide  and  seek  was  even 
rather  terrible  among  its  corners.  Also  one  day  Becket  made 
Ted's  mother  cry.  Running  into  the  parlour  after  he  and  Lind- 
say had  gone,  he  found  her  holding  her  handkerchief  to  her 
eyes.  His  first  impulse  was  to  run  away,  but  the  next  moment 
something  made  him  climb  on  her  knee  and  hug  her. 

"What  are  you  crying  for,  Mamma  darling?" 

"I'm  so  sorry  for  poor  Mr.  Becket,  dear — with  no  Mrs. 
Becket  to  love  him." 

"Was  there  ever  a  Mrs.  Becket?" 

"Of  course  there  was — Lindsay's  mamma.  He's  just  been 
talking  to  me  about  her.  She  died  nine  years  ago." 

"Did  he  mind?" 

"Mind! — why,  of  course  he  did.  Papas  always  mind  when 
mammas  die." 

"Would  Papa  mind  if  you  died?" 

"Of  course  he  would.  Don't  say  such  things,  darling.  It's 
not  right — and  we  don't  talk  about  people  dying  like  that." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because — because — well,  we  don't  talk  about  it  while 
they're  alive.  After  they're  dead  we  may,  perhaps." 

"May  we  talk  about  Mrs.  Becket,  then?" 

"Yes,  but  not  in  front  of  her  poor  husband.  Poor  man!  My 
heart  aches  for  him — to  love  someone  like  that  and  then  to 
lose  them.  What  a  blessing  he  has  dear  little  Lindsay  to  com- 
fort him." 


262  TAMARISK  TOWN 

Ted  as  usual  took  away  his  mother's  words  to  think  them 
over.  After  he  had  pondered  them  for  a  few  days  he  said  to 
Lindsay: 

"Lindsay,  did  you  know  that  you  once  had  a  mamma?" 

"Of  course  I  know,"  said  Lindsay — "haven't  you  seen?" 

"Seen  what?" 

"I'll  show  you." 

Lindsay  now  had  a  new  governess,  Miss  Percival,  who  was 
not  nearly  as  strict  as  Miss  King.  She  was  very  easy  to  dodge, 
and  one  afternoon  they  managed  to  give  her  the  slip  in  the 
High  Street,  and  Lindsay  dragged  Ted  up  to  Coney  Bank  steps, 
and  then  sideways  under  Lewnes's  new  houses  till  they  came 
into  St.  Nicholas'  churchyard. 

The  churchyard  was  all  of  a  slant  on  the  hill ;  it  was  tipped 
against  the  church  which  had  an  air  of  preventing  the  whole 
thing  from  sliding  down  into  the  High  Street.  Lindsay  led  the 
way  mysteriously  over  the  graves,  and  stopped  before  one  with 
a  large  white  stone. 

"There!"  she  said  triumphantly,  "that's  mamma." 

Ted  had  just  learned  to  read,  and  could  spell  out — 

"In  ever  loving  memory  of  Morgan  Becket,  who  entered  into 
rest  on  the  loth  of  November,  1866.  Aged  31.  'I  shall  go  to 
her  but  she  cannot  return  to  me.'  " 

"Oh!"  said  Ted.  He  felt  somehow  a  little  abashed,  a  lit- 
tle envious. 

Lindsay  giggled  self-consciously. 

"I  put  a  bunch  of  chrysanthemums  here  every  tenth  of  No- 
vember and  on  her  birthday.  Papa  says  they  were  her  favour- 
ite flower.  Of  course  he  pays  for  them." 

"Do  you  remember  what  she  looked  like?" 

"How  could  I,  silly?  She  died  when  I  was  only  two.  I've 
got  a  book,  though,  that  she  bought  for  me  the  day  she  died. 
Papa  keeps  it  locked  up  in  a  drawer,  and  it  smells  of  some- 
thing sweet." 

"Morgan's  a  funny  name  for  a  mamma." 


THE  BURNING  HEART  263 

"Not  any  funnier  than  Edward  Monypenny  is  for  a  little 
boy — hullo,  who's  that  over  there?  We'd  better  go  home  now, 
before  anyone  sees  us  and  tells  Miss  Percival." 

A  tall  man  had  come  into  the  churchyard,  and  was  walking 
slowly  towards  them  with  hanging  head.  He  did  not  seem  to 
notice  them,  but  there  was  something  about  him  which  made 
them  feel  frightened.  The  sun  had  dipped  behind  Cuckoo  Hill, 
and  long  shadows  were  afoot  among  the  graves.  This  dim 
churchyard  and  this  grave  of  a  dead  mamma  suddenly  became 
sinister  and  terrifying  to  the  children.  They  grasped  hands 
and  scuttled  towards  the  gate. 

"Lindsay,"  panted  Ted  as  they  ran,  "did  you  see  who  that 
man  was?" 

"No,"  said  Lindsay — "and  I  don't  want  to — he  looked  hor- 
rid." 

"It  was  Papa." 

§6 

For  some  time  after  this  both  Ted  and  Lindsay  had  an  un- 
controllable dislike  of  St.  Nicholas  churchyard.  Lindsay  was 
even  unwilling  on  her  visits  of  ceremony.  She  could  not  ex- 
actly say  why — after  all  the  man  had  been  only  Ted's  papa. 
But  she  could  never  forget  the  funny  way  he  had  come  towards 
them  without  seeing  them.  Ted  also  said  that  he  had  "shown 
a  lot  of  white  in  his  eyes,"  which  had  so  frightened  Lindsay 
that  she  came  in  time  to  believe  that  she  had  seen  it  herself. 
She  often  woke  screaming  from  dreams  of  Monypenny  coming 
towards  her  through  the  shadows  with  hideous  white  eyes. 

But  though  they  were  too  scared  to  seek  more  adventures  in 
the  churchyard,  they  found  them  together  in  other  parts  of 
the  town.  Miss  Percival  was  an  ideal  governess.  Every  morn- 
ing she  went  to  the  Library  to  look  at  the  new  novels.  Bond  of 
the  Library  had  died  in  the  Spring  of  '69,  and  had  been  suc- 
ceeded by  a  man  called  Benbow  from  Folkestone.  Benbow  was 
even  more  modern  and  go  ahead  than  Bond.  The  very  newest 


264  TAMARISK  TOWN 

novels  were  to  be  found  on  his  shelves,  and  he  had  already  in- 
troduced several  startling  new  features  in  the  Marlingate  Cour- 
ier and  Visitors'  List,  the  editorship  of  which  he  had  taken  over 
with  the  shop. 

But  even  the  children  soon  realised  that  Miss  Percival  did 
not  go  to  Benbow's  for  the  novels,  though  she  generally  came 
out  clutching  a  volume  of  'The  Ladder  of  Life"  or  "Ben  Hur" 
or  "Melbourne  House."  Her  attraction  was  the  tall  beautiful 
young  man  with  the  long  whiskers  and  pathetic  cough  who 
drooped  over  Benbow's  back  counter. 

"Children,  I  shall  probably  be  some  time  choosing  my  new 
book.  You  can  run  to  the  bottom  of  the  street,  if  you  like." 

So  Ted  and  Lindsay  would  run  off  and  taste  perilous  de- 
lights of  freedom.  Sometimes  they  went  into  the  pastry-cook's 
at  the  corner  of  the  Parade  and  ate  tarts  till  they  had  that 
comfortable  bursting  feeling  which  could  so  seldom  be  at- 
tained when  grown-up  people  controlled  the  feast.  Sometimes 
they  went  to  the  Marine  Gardens  and  spent  their  pennies  on  the 
clockwork  toys  in  the  entrance  of  the  Aquarium.  These  had 
outlived  their  fashion,  and  were  considered  amusements  for 
children  only.  To  Ted  and  Lindsay  they  were  more  than 
amusement — they  were  wonder  and  rapture.  When  pennies 
were  scarce  it  would  sometimes  take  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to 
decide  whether  they  should  see  the  choir  march  in  and  out  of 
church  to  the  solemn  croon  of  the  organ,  or  the  peasants  dance 
tinkling  round  their  mysterious  little  tree,  or  mamma  winding 
wood  on  arms  which  had  lost  their  hands  but  none  of  their  ef- 
ficiency. The  glass  covers  would  sometimes  be  fogged  thickly 
over  by  the  breath  from  the  two  little  faces  flattened  against 
them,  and  one  day  a  terrible  thing  happened.  For  some  reason 
Lindsay  jostled  Ted,  pushing  his  head  against  the  case,  and  the 
cairngorn  brooch  on  his  Highland  cap  struck  the  glass  and 
cracked  it. 

This  was  bad  enough  in  itself,  but  in  its  consequences 
far  worse,  for  the  ensuing  fuss  and  enquiry  brought  to  light 


THE  BURNING  HEART  265 

Miss  PercivaFs  half-hours  in  Benbow's  shop  and  the  children's 
licensed  truancy.  As  a  result,  the  age  of  freedom  came  abrupt- 
ly to  an  end.  Miss  Percival  drove  off  with  red  eyes  and  her  tin 
box,  and  it  was  decided  henceforth  to  do  without  a  governess 
for  Lindsay  and  send  her  to  school.  She  was  now  twelve  years 
old,  and  an  academy  was  selected  in  the  country  near  Clap- 
ham.  She  did  not  share  Ted's  dismay  at  the  prospect,  though 
she  was  far  too  much  the  product  of  her  age  not  to  drive  off 
looking  quite  as  miserable  as  Miss  Percival.  For  a  day  or  two 
Ted  missed  her  as  deeply  as  the  young  man  at  the  Library 
missed  the  governess,  and  forgot  her  nearly  as  soon. 

§7 

The  following  Spring  Ted  himself  was  sent  to  school — to 
Holland  House  under  All  Holland  Hill.  This  Academy  for 
young  gentlemen  had  lately  been  established  by  two  rather 
helpless  ladies  in  Rye  Lane.  Fanny  Monypenny  was  anxious 
to  help  Mrs.  Peters  and  Miss  Buries,  and  her  husband  saw  no 
objection  to  his  son  being  educated  locally  till  he  could  go  to 
Charterhouse.  Ted  was  glad  enough  of  the  new  arrangement. 
Though  his  ache  for  Lindsay  was  now  growing  numb  and  in- 
definite, he  felt  very  lonely  at  Gun  Garden  House.  His  mother 
was  kind  and  gentle  and  his  father  was  kind  and  just,  but  he 
always  felt  somehow  a  little  remote  from  his  mother  and  a  lit- 
tle afraid  of  his  father. 

As  the  years  went  by  Fanny  had  sunk  deeper  and  deeper  into 
the  shadows  of  the  house.  She  regulated  the  household  ways 
with  efficiency  and  discretion,  and  entertained  her  guests  with 
graciousness  and  dignity;  she  was  a  good  wife  and  a  good 
mother  and  a  good  friend  to  the  poor,  but  there  was  no  more 
spirit  in  her.  She  was  like  a  rose  picked  and  put  in  a  jar  and 
left  unwatered;  she  drooped,  and  her  fragrance  was  gone.  Ted 
loved  her  and  knew  that  she  loved  him,  but  he  never  sought 
her  out  as  comrade  or  champion.  Poor  Fanny,  one  of  love's 


266  TAMARISK  TOWN 

betrayals,  saw  him  slipping  from  her  arms  that  were  too  weak 
to  hold  him,  saw  him  stagger  off  from  her  unsteadily  on  his  own 
feet,  wondering  how  soon  and  how  heavily  he  would  fall. 

On  the  other  hand,  Ted  found  his  father  vivid  enough.  Both 
mentally  and  physically  he  was  inspiriting  but  a  little  terrify- 
ing. Wherein  his  terror  lay  might  not  be  easy  to  guess,  as  he 
was  never  rough  or  harsh  to  the  boy;  it  was  perhaps  due  to  his 
stiff,  unapproachable  manner,  which  was  hardening  back  into 
the  sternness  of  his  youth,  with  an  added  toughness  from  expe- 
rience. Where  Fanny  was  merely  vague  and  remote,  Mony- 
penny  was  definite  and  close,  but  repelling.  Ted  admired  him 
in  the  midst  of  his  fear.  His  father  even  had  a  glamour,  es- 
pecially in  his  mayoral  pomp.  Three  times  Ted  had  seen  him 
drive  as  Mayor  down  the  High  Street,  in  his  furred,  scarlet 
robes,  with  cocked  hat  athwartships,  his  postillions  before  and 
his  mace-bearers  behind.  Child  as  he  was  he  had  noticed  the 
difference  between  Monypenny,  and  Vidler  and  Pelham,  whom 
he  had  seen  wear  those  same  scarlet  robes  on  other  occasions. 
His  father  was  the  finest,  handsomest  man  on  the  Town  Coun- 
cil, and  the  cleverest — everybody  said  so.  Ted  was  proud  of 
him — and  avoided  him. 

He  was  therefore  not  sorry  to  leave  home  for  the  cheerful 
aimlessness  of  Holland  House.  Punching  little  boys'  heads  in 
the  corners  of  sunny  rooms,  or  pacing  with  a  bigger  boy's  arm 
round  his  neck  over  the  dancing  shadows  of  the  poplars  in  the 
garden,  and  in  the  intervals  of  feud  and  play  pecking  at  the 
crumbs  of  education  held  out  timorously  by  Mrs.  Peters  and 
Miss  Buries,  all  this  filled  up  some  happy  days,  which  stretched 
into  months  and  years  without  losing  their  brightness.  He 
learned  easily  and  superficially;  he  made  easy,  superficial 
friends  and  enemies.  He  left  Holland  House  without  having 
added  to  his  life  anything  definite  in  the  way  of  knowledge  or 
human  relationship.  But  the  years  could  not  be  called  empty, 
for  during  them  he  discovered  Marlingate. 

He  discovered  it  piecemeal  on  half-holidays.    He  did  not 


THE  BURNING  HEART  267 

care  to  spend  these  at  home,  and  only  partly  and  occasionally 
with  his  school-friends.  He  used  to  prowl  about  by  himself  on 
Wednesday  afternoons;  at  first  his  intention  had  been  to  "get 
into  the  country,"  but  he  soon  found  the  country  featureless 
beside  the  town.  He  had  not  the  rustical  mind,  and  his  taste 
craved  unconsciously  for  form — for  straight  elegant  lines  and 
balanced  curves,  for  arches,  which  seemed  mysteriously  to  drag 
his  soul  up  to  their  apex,  for  the  wedded  austerity  of  par- 
allel lines,  for  colours  blended  by  choice  and  not  by  chance. 
He  found  all  this  in  Marlingate,  and  he  found  too  a  romantic 
and  picturesque  beauty  which  stirred  his  imagination:  Tam- 
arisk steps,  mellowed  and  stubbed  by  the  booted  generations 
of  tan-frocks  and  smugglers,  the  black  wooden  towers  of  the 
Stade,  the  beach  of  Rock-a-nore,  with  the  smacks  like  por- 
poises wallowing  on  the  shingle — the  curve  of  Zuriel  Place, 
with  its  high  red  houses  looking  down  at  the  grass  between  the 
mine-stones — Harpsichord  House  straddling  Fish  Street  like  a 
giant  spinet — the  grey  masses  of  the  Town  Hall  and  St.  Nich- 
olas Church,  the  High  Street  roofs  red  as  sorrel.  ...  He 
would  sit  up  on  All  Holland  Hill  in  the  evening,  just  below 
Mount  Idle,  and  watch  the  reds  and  blacks  turn  smoky  in 
the  dusk.  The  lamps  would  be  lit,  at  first  mere  orange  splashes 
on  the  twilight,  then  deepening  to  red  and  running  together, 
till  a  crimson  glow  went  up  from  the  streets  like  the  glow  of  a 
burning  house,  hanging  in  the  clouds.  .  .  . 

He  loved,  too,  the  new  town  which  his  father  had  built.  The 
Marine  Parade  gleamed  in  the  twilight  like  a  shining  wall  be- 
tween the  town  and  the  sea,  and  the  Assembly  Room  made 
him  think  of  the  Palace  Beautiful.  He  liked  the  red,  solemn 
houses  in  Park  Terrace  and  Becket  Grove,  and  at  first  he  had 
liked  the  houses  Lewnes  had  built  on  the  Coney  Banks,  with 
the  bright  colours  of  their  crinkled  balconies.  But  after  a 
time  he  lost  his  pleasure  in  these,  and  indeed  came  to  think 
them  nearly  as  ugly  as  what  he  called  the  Ugly  Houses — which 
were  the  dingy  little  rows  in  the  heart  of  the  town. 


268  TAMARISK  TOWN 

Once  he  said  to  his  father — 

"Father,  I  can't  bear  the  Ugly  Houses,  can  you?" 

To  which  Monypenny  replied — 

"Why  can't  you  bear  them?" 

"I — oh,  I  dunno.  Ugly  things  make  me  feel  horrid.  I  say, 
Papa— 

"Well?" 

"Let  me  draw  you  a  house — I  can — I've  drawn  heaps." 

"I'd  rather  you  didn't.  Don't  waste  your  time.  When  do 
you  draw  them? — at  school?" 

"Yes — I  draw  them  for  Miss  Buries;  and  when  I'm  at  home 
I  draw  them  for  fun.  .  .  .  And  sometimes  I  draw  them  for  Mr. 
Figg." 

"Mr.  Figg!" 

"Yes — I  drew  him  a  whole  street  when  he  was  staying  with 
Mr.  Becket  last  spring.  He  liked  them,  and  said  that  one  day 
he'd  teach  me  to  make  elevations." 

"The  deuce  he  did!" 


§8 

When  the  Pier  was  first  built  Ted  thought  it  was  the  most 
beautiful  thing  he  had  ever  seen.  It  was  like  the  picture  of 
the  mosques  in  the  illustrated  London  News — all  white,  with 
shining  domes  and  cupolas.  After  a  time,  however,  he  lost  his 
admiration — about  the  same  time  as  he  lost  it  for  Lewnes's 
houses.  The  Pier  sometimes  made  him  want  to  laugh — it  was 
so  full  of  bulges — and  it  seemed  quite  ugly  when  one  looked 
at  it  after  the  Marine  Parade.  But  people  said  it  had  cost  a 
lot  of  money. 

Mr.  Figg  had  not  designed  it,  and  he  soon  discovered  that 
Mr.  Figg  did  not  admire  it,  either.  Perhaps  this  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  Ted's  change  of  attitude,  for  he  was  now  at- 
taching himself  to  Figg.  The  architect  came  seldom  to  Gun 
Garden  House,  but  was,  instead,  growing  more  friendly  with 


THE  BURNING  HEART  269 

Becket,  and  was  often  to  be  found  at  the  house  on  the  Coney 
Banks.  He  also  liked  Ted,  and  took  an  interest  in  him.  He 
acknowledged  his  talent  for  drawing,  and  saw  for  him  a  fine  fu- 
ture in  his  own  profession.  He  and  the  boy  would  have  long 
and  impassioned  talks  about  the  houses  they  would  build  some 
day. 

Ted  seldom  met  Lindsay  Becket.  She  was  sixteen,  and  im- 
possibly superior  to  boys  of  twelve.  Moreover,  the  summer 
the  Pier  was  built  her  father  at  last  gave  way  to  her  entreaties, 
and  allowed  her  to  go  to  a  finishing  school  in  Germany.  Ted 
did  not  regret  her,  for  Figg  was  all  that  he  wanted  now.  When 
Figg  was  at  the  Coney  Banks,  young  Monypenny  came  almost 
every  day  to  the  house,  and  if  he  could  not  talk  to  him,  would 
lie  curled  up  in  the  window  seat  or  stretched  on  the  hearthrug, 
listening  while  he  talked  to  Becket.  From  those  conversations 
he  gathered,  to  his  surprise,  that  his  hero  did  not  altogether 
approve  of  his  father. 

"I  could  have  torn  my  hair  out  over  that  Pier,"  said  Figg. 

"So  could  I,"  said  Becket,  and  Ted  thought  how  much  worse 
he  could  afford  it — nearly  all  his  hair  now  grew  below  his  ears. 

"And  yet  there  you  are  putting  your  money  into  the  blasted 
thing."  " 

"Well,  I  feel  I  must  support  the  town,  even  if  I  don't  en- 
tirely approve  of  all  that's  done  in  it.  My  poor  Morgan  loved 
it  and  is  buried  in  it." 

'Tt's  highly  generous  of  you,  but  personally  I'd  have  felt  u> 
clined  to  teach  Monypenny  a  lesson.  That's  why  I  refused 
point  blank  to " 

"Ahem!"  coughed  Becket,  glancing  towards  Ted  on  the  win- 
dow seat. 

"Oh,  never  mind  the  youngster.  He'll  hear  no  real  harm  of 
his  dad.  But  I  consider  Monypenny  muffed  that  business  bad- 
ly. Fifteen  years  ago  all  the  king's  horses  and  all  the  king's 
men  couldn't  have  built  a  pier  in  Marlingate." 

"He  did  his  best  to  stop  it." 


270  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"That's  the  point — he  did  his  best,  and  he  failed.  Before 
his  marriage,  he  could  have  shut  up  Lewes  and  Co.  with  his 
second  best.  He's  been  letting  things  drift,  and  now  finds  he 
can't  pull  'em  together.  You  may  say  that  it  was  that  feller 
Benbow  who  put  the  measure  through,  but  Monypenny  ud 
never  have  left  him  a  chance  in  the  old  days.  To  begin  with, 
the  chap  hasn't  any  business  to  be  on  the  Town  Council — he's 
not  at  all  the  sort  of  man  we  want,  and  he  didn't  take  over 
Bond's  seat  with  the  Library.  I  hear  that  Raymond  Hurdi- 
cott  is  disgusted,  and  talks  of  resigning." 

"Dear,  dear — that  would  be  terrible." 

"I  bet  anything  he'll  do  it,  and  most  likely  go  to  Brigh- 
ton next  Winter." 

Becket  sighed. 

"I  hear  that  both  the  Raymonds  and  the  Leos  are  shocked 
at  the  Pier — and  so  are  the  Papillons." 

"Quite  right,  too.  The  place  ull  be  a  bear-garden  on  excur- 
sion days  from  Southend." 

"But  I  thought  those  safeguards  of  the  Mayor's  very  sensi- 
ble. If  they  work  well  ..." 

"They  won't  work.  They're  too  flimsy.  It's  all  very  good 
to  have  Pier  Tolls  for  the  beasts  coming  off  the  steamers,  and 
not  letting  'em  into  the  town  unless  they've  got  sixpence.  But 
even  a  Margate  tripper  is  generally  worth  that  much.  Besides, 
what's  to  prevent  the  Council  abolishing  the  tolls  at  their  next 
meeting?  As  for  having  me  design  it  ...  I  told  Mony- 
penny I'd  see  him  damned  first.  Bah!  The  whole  thing's  rot- 
ten, and  I  hope  you  haven't  put  much  money  into  it." 

"One  doesn't  like  to  be  thought  ungenerous." 

"Um  .  .  .  well,  they  got  nothing  out  of  me.  Seriously, 
Becket,  if  I  were  you  I  shouldn't  invest  too  much  locally.  The 
place  ull  go  down  now — I'm  sure  of  it;  and  once  a  landslip  like 
that  gets  started,  you  never  know  where  it  will  end." 

"Nonsense,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Becket,  "Marlingate  is  as 
safe  as  a  rock." 


THE  BURNING  HEART  271 

§9 

Ted  Monypenny  went  to  Charterhouse  in  the  Spring  of  '81. 
His  father  experienced  an  odd,  indefinite  relief  at  his  going; 
and  yet,  perversely,  he  missed  the  boy.  Till  he  went  away,  he 
had  not  known  how  much  his  son  was  to  him,  but  now  that 
his  feet  could  never  be  heard  padding  up  the  steps  of  an  eve- 
ning, home  from  school,  now  that  his  room  was  shut  up,  and 
his  chair  stood  empty  at  the  solemn  meals,  Monypenny  knew 
that  he  had  taken  a  real,  if  sorrowful  pleasure  in  watching  the 
growth  of  this  young  nature  which  was  so  like  his  own,  and 
yet  so  vitally  different.  He  had  seen  in  the  innocent  exposure 
of  his  son's  mind  the  ardours  of  his  own  youth,  burning  more 
loosely,  without  ruling  or  purpose.  The  fires  of  Monypenny's 
youth  had  been  like  the  fires  of  some  engine,  subdued  to  one 
object — in  Ted  the  fire  burnt  more  for  warmth  and  beauty,  set 
no  rods  moving  or  wheels  turning.  Ted  would  suffer  more  eas- 
ily than  his  father,  because  the  forces  of  his  nature  were  more 
scattered  and  vulnerable,  but  he  would  not,  for  the  same 
reason,  suffer  so  deeply.  Still,  the  thought  of  his  pathetic,  easy 
pain  gave  Monypenny  a  pang  of  protective  anxieties.  He 
could  not,  after  all,  escape  his  own  fatherhood,  and  he  was  be- 
ginning to  learn  that  this  boy  was  the  child  not  only  of  his 
flesh  and  blood  in  their  temporal  treachery,  but  of  his  soul  and 
his  dream  in  their  undying  faithfulness. 

Yet  he  was  glad  to  have  him  gone.  For  Ted's  sake,  he  was 
best  out  of  Marlingate.  So  far  the  municipal  idea  had  taken 
no  very  strong  hold  of  him,  but  there  were  tokens  of  its  onset, 
and  both  circumstances  and  heredity  favoured  its  growth.  For 
the  next  ten  years  he  was  certainly  best  away  from  home. 
Charterhouse  would  absorb  his  energies,  and  then  Oxford.  He 
would  form  a  new  environment.  Anyhow,  he  would  forget 
Figg,  whom  Monypenny  looked  on  as  Ted's  most  dangerous 
influence.  The  boy  did  not  seem  to  be  of  a  particularly  at- 
tached or  constant  nature,  and  if  only  he  could  be  kept  away 


272  TAMARISK  TOWN 

from  Figg  and  Becket  during  the  holidays  would  probably  soon 
cease  to  trouble  about  either. 

Circumstances  were  helpful.  Ted  quickly  made  new  friends 
at  Charterhouse,  and  spent  a  large  part  of  his  holidays  at  their 
homes.  Also  Figg's  visits  to  Marlingate  became  fewer.  His 
erratic,  ruthless  mind  soon  tired  of  Becket's  sentimental  prosi- 
ness.  The  friendship  was  maintained  officially,  but  not  in  prac- 
tice. As  for  his  relations  with  Monypenny,  these  in  time  be- 
came definitely  hostile.  There  were  constant  arguments  and 
recriminations  on  the  subject  of  the  Pier,  also  on  the  designs 
for  New  Marlingate — as  the  streets  at  the  back  of  Becket 
Grove  came  to  be  called.  In  the  end  Figg  wrote  several  vio- 
lent and  indiscreet  letters  to  friends  in  the  town,  in  which  he 
blamed  Monypenny  for  all  the  trouble,  and  rode  his  anti-matri- 
monial hobby-horse  to  the  edge  of  offensiveness.  Monypenny, 
he  said,  was  "a  damned  uxorious,  renegading  swine,  who'd  lost 
his  soul  and  would  lose  the  town  too  if  the  Corporation  wasn't 
careful."  He  drew  up  a  Grand  Remonstrance  in  which  he  ac- 
cused the  Mayor  of  defacing  the  town's  beauty  with  work- 
men's cottages,  of  cheapening  its  glory  with  the  abomination 
of  New  Marlingate,  of  vulgarising  its  gentility  with  his  scan- 
dalous Pier,  and  of  encouraging  outsiders  such  as  Lewnes  and 
Lusted  and  Benbow,  while  alienating  gentlemen  and  artists 
such  as  Hurdicott,  Becket,  and  himself,  Figg. 

Monypenny  had  borne  a  good  deal  from  Figg  in  the  way 
of  personal  insult,  but  this  was  really  too  much,  and  the  breach 
between  him  and  the  architect  became  public  and  scandalous. 
Becket  made  some  clumsy  attempts  at  a  reconciliation,  but  the 
rest  of  the  Town  Council  did  their  best  to  aggravate  the  may- 
oral sense  of  outrage.  They  were  tired  of  Figg  and  his  airs. 
He  was  getting  too  big  for  his  boots — he  thought  he  was  boss 
of  the  town  and  could  build  what  he  liked  in  it.  From  the  first 
Lewnes  and  Lusted  and  Breeds  and  others  had  disapproved  of 
him,  and  now  he  was  too  much  even  for  Monypenny.  They 
were  glad,  and  hoped  that  Marlingate  had  seen  the  last  of  him. 


THE  BURNING  HEART  273 

Their  hopes  were  fulfilled.  That  year  Figg  passed  out  of 
the  Town's  history.  Always  violent  and  over-stressed  either 
in  liking  or  in  loathing,  he  could  never  speak  of  Marlingate 
without  a  curse.  He  settled  in  London,  and  designed  Town 
Halls  and  churches  for  the  north.  He  was  also  the  architect 
of  several  London  suburbs — the  circle  of  urbanised  villages  that 
were  now  smudging  the  rim  of  London  across  the  South  East- 
ern Railway.  In  the  Jubilee  year  he  was  knighted,  and  two 
years  later  denied  the  philosophy  of  a  lifetime  by  marrying  the 
widow  of  a  Colonial  Bishop,  and  doing  some  of  his  best  work 
afterwards. 

He  was  the  only  real  friend  Monypenny  had  known,  but  if 
he  ever  regretted  him,  ever  thought  wistfully  of  the  day  when 
Figg,  with  his  long  arms  waving,  his  face  a-sweat  with  en- 
thusiasm, had  led  the  first  Town  Committee  round  the  old 
Marlingate  and  planned  its  glory — or  when  Figg  and  he  had 
mixed  their  eager  breath  over  the  first  designs  for  Becket  Grove 
— or  saluted  each  other's  genius  across  the  flowering  glory  of 
the  Town  Park — if  he  ever  thought  of  those  days,  he  never 
showed  the  weakness  of  the  thought. 

Yet  he  often  wished  that  he  was  not  quite  so  lonely.  He 
would  have  liked  to  break  through  his  loneliness  to  Ted  or  to 
Fanny,  or  even  to  Becket  or  to  Pelham — but  he  could  not.  It 
seemed  as  if  Morgan  wanted,  in  death  as  she  had  wanted  in 
life,  to  keep  him  all  to  herself,  and  would  not  let  him  go  to 
any  other  creature.  He  sometimes  thought  that  she  might  have 
let  him  go  to  Fanny,  for  Fanny  was  as  lonely  as  he,  and  wanted 
him  as  much  as  he  wanted  her.  But  naturally  Morgan  would 
not  let  him  go  to  the  woman  who  had  already  taken  from  her 
the  husk  of  his  allegiance — on  the  contrary,  she  had  through 
those  very  tokens  and  caresses  he  had  given  away  from  her, 
wiped  the  other  woman  out,  made  her  as  dead  as  herself.  .  .  . 

Yet  Morgan  need  not  have  been  afraid.  Even  if  he  could 
have  gone  to  Fanny  in  the  spirit  as  well  as  in  the  flesh,  he  could 
never  have  loved  her  whole  body  and  mind  as  much  as  he 


274  TAMARISK  TOWN 

loved  Morgan's  little  finger  and  smallest  thought.  He  could 
never  forget  her;  each  year  that  went  by  took  her  no  further 
from  him  down  the  stream  of  memory.  Her  grave  in  the  heart 
of  the  town  was  the  shrine  to  which  he  made  many  sorrowful 
pilgrimages.  When  twilight  fell  on  the  tilted  churchyard,  and  he 
was  sure  that  no  one  would  see,  he  crept  in  with  the  shadows, 
and  stood  for  long,  darkening  minutes,  looking  down  at  the 
stone  with  its  graven  lies — sometimes  ,with  a  heart  soft 
enough  to  pray  and  eyes  young  enough  to  weep,  sometimes  too 
hard  and  too  old  for  either.  He  never  thought  of  her  as  she 
had  been  very  long  ago,  when  her  hair  was  rumpled  and  her 
dress  was  torn,  and  she  caught  him  in  a  snare  between  the 
woods  and  the  sea.  His  mind  loved  order  and  dignity  too  well 
to  recall  her  without  them.  He  saw  her  as  she  had  graced  the 
Assembly,  with  all  eyes  turning  to  look  at  her,  as  she  had 
graced  her  home,  with  all  tongues  moving  to  praise  her,  as  she 
had  graced  his  heart  with  her  love,  which  had  all  the  dignity 
as  well  as  the  freedom  of  a  storm.  She  was  lovely  and  fitting 
and  fair  and  sedate,  and  the  secret  of  the  woods  was  in  her 
heart,  under  the  silk  and  lace  that  were  so  seemly  .  .  .  and 
she  had  taken  it  away  with  her,  leaving  him  to  stumble  and 
grope  in  the  streets  of  his  accursed  town. 

"And  the  streets  by  the  shore  shall  be  trodden  no  more 
By  the  footsteps  of  Morgan  le  Fay." 

He  had  built  his  town  for  her,  and  then  had  offered  her 
up  as  a  sacrifice  to  it.  Nothing  less  than  its  ruin  could  avenge 
her,  nor  her  monument  be  less  than  the  defiled  stones  on 
which  he,  poor  betrayed  priest  of  the  Golden  Bough,  had  of- 
fered her  to  an  illusion. 

§  10 

Ted  was  sorry  that  Decimus  Figg  had  cut  himself  off  from 
Marlingate,  but  he  missed  his  new  friend  less  than  his  father 
missed  his  old  one.  His  personal  attachments  were  not  strong, 


THE  BURNING  HEART  275 

and  his  life  was  already  crowded  with  boys  and  young  men  in 
various  stages  of  intimacy.  Some  of  these  friendships  were  in- 
tense, almost  worships,  but  they  never  seemed  to  survive  any 
change  in  their  environment.  Even  the  most  passionate  of 
them  did  not  survive  his  leaving  Charterhouse  for  Oxford. 

This  happened  in  1887.  He  had  an  Oriel  scholarship,  and 
was  thought  to  have  passed  through  Charterhouse  very  credit- 
ably. Monypenny  felt  proud  of  him,  but  he  never  spoke  of 
his  pride.  The  silence  which  necessarily  cloaked  the  main  pur- 
pose of  his  life  was  now  extending  to  his  lesser  emotions.  As 
a  husband  he  was  extraordinarily  silent,  and  his  solemn  com- 
pany became  almost  unbearable  to  Fanny,  who  asked  if  she 
might  have  her  cousin,  Sue  Vidler,  to  live  with  her  again. 

Monypenny  agreed  readily.  He  was  sorry  for  his  wife  in 
the  loneliness  to  which  he  had  condemned  her,  and  he  was  now 
beyond  the  petty  annoyances  of  an  old  maid's  chatter.  So  Sue 
left  the  east-end  roof  of  her  uncle  and  aunt,  and  brought  her- 
self and  a  huge  assortment  of  coloured  wools  to  Gun  Garden 
House.  She  and  Fanny  spent  long  hours  together  chatting  and 
clucking  over  the  wools,  and  Fanny  seemed  to  recover  a  little 
of  her  lost  vitality  as  she  turned  the  dwindled  stream  of  her 
emotions  to  the  working  of  mats  and  cushion-covers  and  stool- 
covers  and  firescreens. 

Not  long  after  this  old  Vidler  died  quite  suddenly — he  was 
found  dead  in  bed  of  an  unsuspected  disease  whose  occasional 
twinges  he  had  not  thought  it  worth  while  to  mention.  He 
proved  to  have  been  even  richer  than  was  rumoured  in  the 
town,  and  besides  leaving  his  wife  very  comfortably  provided 
for,  had  bequeathed  a  handsome  legacy  to  his  beloved  niece, 
Fanny  Monypenny,  and  to  his  great-nephew,  Edward  Mony- 
penny, Junior.  There  were,  besides,  legacies  to  various  local  un- 
dertakings— the  Borough  Fund,  the  Winter  Garden  (which 
had,  however,  been  scrapped  in  favour  of  the  Pier) ,  a  Fund  for 
the  redecoration  and  enlargement  of  the  Assembly  Room,  and 
the  Fishermen's  Benevolent  Society. 


276  TAMARISK  TOWN 

Ted  had  loved  his  uncle,  and  shed  some  bitter  tears  at  his 
death,  but  he  could  not  help  feeling  important  and  excited  now 
that  he  had  a  regular  income  of  two  hundred  a  year.  He  re- 
ceived his  first  dividends  at  the  beginning  of  his  second  term  at 
Oxford,  which  enabled  him  to  start  at  once  the  redecoration  of 
his  rooms  according  to  the  new  tastes  inspired  by  his  first 
term's  contact  with  Varsity  ideals. 

Those  were  the  days  of  the  aesthetic  movement  in  art,  when 
Punch  laughed  at  Maudle  and  Postlethwaite  and  the  Cimabue- 
Browns,  and  young  men  tried  to  look  like  Oscar  Wilde.  Ted 
for  one  term  tried  to  look  like  Oscar  Wilde,  and  wore  a  green 
suit  and  a  flowing  tie,  with  a  fur  collar  on  his  overcoat  and  a 
flower  in  his  button-hole. 

From  aestheticism  he  passed  to  ritualism — wore  a  cross  on  his 
watch-chain,  confessed  to  a  Cowley  Father,  read  "John  Ingle- 
sant,"  and  fought  with  beasts  at  the  Patronal  Festival  of  All 
Saints,  Margaret  Street.  Then  behold  him  an  agnostic,  bit- 
ter and  rather  sad,  reading  Haeckel,  and  waving  the  fiery  cross 
of  Nietzsche  and  the  Gotterdammerung  in  the  faces  of  his  for- 
mer associates.  Then  a  wave  of  socialism  passed  over  him, 
leaving  him  high  and  dry  on  the  Tory  beach,  before  the  dis- 
tressful cry  of  Ireland  called  him  out  to  sea  again. 

Monypenny  watched  half  amused,  half  scornful,  these  va- 
garies of  his  son's  mind.  But  under  both  amusement  and  scorn 
ran  a  current  of  uneasiness,  for  Ted's  waverings  of  thought  and 
taste  only  emphasized  his  one  constancy.  Whatever  he  might 
be  during  the  term,  in  his  vacations  he  was  still  the  faithful 
lover  of  Marlingate,  brooding  over  its  beauties  and  uglinesses, 
poking  at  its  constitution.  His  love  would  no  doubt  find  prac- 
tical expression  in  his  future  as  an  architect,  for  even  after  the 
removal  of  Figg,  he  persisted  in  this  ambition.  He  had  already 
the  three  Board  of  Education  certificates.  All  Monypenny 
could  do  was  to  persuade  him  to  postpone  any  further  steps 
till  after  he  had  left  the  'Varsity,  bribing  him  with  a  half- 
promise  of  a  course  in  Germany  or  Geneva.  By  then,  he  des- 


THE  BURNING  HEART  277 

perately  told  himself,  the  boy  would  have  changed;  he  changed 
quarterly  in  friendship,  religion,  politics,  and  art — surely  a 
change  would  come  soon  in  more  fundamental  things.  But  he 
knew  in  his  heart  that  this  constant  change  of  unessential  ex- 
pression only  served  to  emphasise  the  firmness  of  the  essen- 
tial impression,  which  he  himself  had  made  on  him  in  his  be- 
getting. This  was  life — compelling  from  the  father  unwilling 
gifts  which  in  time  the  son  would  use  to  confound  him. 

Ted  still  kept  up  desultorily  his  friendship  with  Becket,  and 
always  went  two  or  three  times  every  vacation  to  dine  with  the 
old  man.  Lindsay  was  still  away.  She  had  come  home  for  a 
brief  interval,  tasted  and  despised  the  delights  of  "coming  out," 
and  then  gone  back  to  her  beloved  Germany,  to  study  music 
and  singing  at  Weimar.  The  merchant  was  rather  prosy  com- 
pany for  Ted,  but  they  had  the  subject  of  Marlingate  in  com- 
mon, and  on  that  subject  all  the  evening  the  young  man  would 
enlarge  and  the  old  man  reiterate.  Becket  had  succeeded  Figg 
as  the  head  of  the  reactionary  party.  He  was  but  a  pottering 
leader,  and  his  followers  were  few  and  inclined  to  straggle,  but 
he  had  the  same  ideal  for  the  town  as  Ted,  though  he  called  it 
gentility  instead  of  beauty.  He  had  refused  to  advance  the 
money  necessary  for  finishing  New  Marlingate,  so  that  a  lim- 
ited liability  company  had  to  be  formed  to  carry  on  the  work — 
calling  itself  the  Braybrook  Estate  Syndicate.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  refused  to  support  any  local  undertaking,  and  his 
action  caused  great  offence  in  the  town. 

Monypenny  did  his  best  to  discourage  Ted's  association  with 
Becket.  The  young  man  was  capable  of  giving  him  and  his 
party  the  qualities  of  brain  and  taste  and  enterprise  that  would 
make  them  dangerous.  So  far  they  had  only  sentiment  and  or- 
thodoxy; Ted,  young,  eager  and  privileged,  would  put  strength 
into  their  flabby  sinews  and  fire  into  their  faint  heart.  Besides, 
Becket  was  sure  to  stuff  the  boy's  head  with  the  idea  that  his 
father  had  blundered — he  would  rake  up  the  Figg  controversy, 
and  rouse  all  that  there  was  in  Ted — and  there  was  much— of 


278  TAMARISK  TOWN 

chivalry  and  enterprise.  But  Monypenny  went  no  further  than 
a  rather  negative  discouragement,  for  he  saw  plainly  the  effect 
that  a  positive  opposition  would  have  on  a  temperament  like 
his  son's.  It  would  drive  him  over  at  once  to  the  enemy's  side, 
whereas  if  only  he  had  the  wisdom  and  the  patience  to  wait, 
the  years  would  probably  work  their  own  changes.  He  kept 
on  assuring  himself  that  a  nature  like  Ted's  could  not  remain 
fixed  on  any  one  purpose,  and  that  at  last — probably  at  the 
passing  of  adolescence — something  would  happen  to  change 
the  groundwork  whose  superstructure  had  so  continually 
shifted. 

For  one  thing,  he  would  marry.  Considering  his  number- 
less ardours  it  was  surprising  that  so  far  he  had  never  fallen  in 
love.  His  enthusiasms  had  never  hurled  him  into  any  amor- 
ous adventure,  for  he  inherited  his  father's  shyness  with  wom- 
en, also  his  stiff  sense  of  sexual  dignity.  Perhaps  to  his  inex- 
perience was  due  a  certain  strain  of  naivete  which  ran  rather 
attractively  through  his  other  qualities.  But  Monypenny 
hoped  that  love  would  not  come  so  late  to  his  son  as  it  had 
come  to  himself.  He  was  beginning  to  attribute  much  of  his 
own  tragedy  to  the  late  coming  of  his  love  and  the  early  suc- 
cess of  his  ambition.  He  had  achieved  his  object  and  crowned 
his  life's  work  before  he  was  forty,  and  then  love  had  come — • 
too  late;  for  he  was  now  the  prey  of  the  thing  he  had  pursued 
and  caught  too  soon.  He  hoped  that  love  would  claim  Ted  be- 
fore Marlingate  got  him — it  had  not  definitely  seized  him  yet. 
Then  the  boy  would  not  have  to  make  his  father's  choice.  Also 
he  would  no  longer  stand  in  the  way  of  his  father's  schemes. 
In  love  and  marriage  he  would  either  lose  or  centralise  his  en- 
thusiasm, his  foundations  would  be  shifted,  and  Marlingate 
would  lose  its  only  champion,  its  only  hope  of  escape  from  the 
destruction  its  builder  had  planned. 


THE  BURNING  HEART  279 

§" 

So  far  there  had  been  no  open  discussion  between  Ted  and 
Monypenny.  They  seldom  talked  and  never  argued  about  the 
town.  Monypenny's  reasons  for  silence  were  simple  enough, 
Ted's  were  more  complex.  He  was  still  a  little  afraid  of  his 
father,  and  during  the  last  few  months  had  felt  rather  bitter 
against  him.  He  joined  with  Becket  in  disapproving  of  his 
latest  policy  for  Marlingate,  and  accused  him  in  his  heart  of 
pandering  to  low  ideals  in  the  Corporation,  and  of  robbing  the 
future  by  grabbing  the  cash  of  the  present  moment. 

But  there  was  no  outward  breach  between  them,  and  dur- 
ing his  vacations  Ted  was  a  good  deal  with  Monypenny,  ac- 
companying him  on  his  walks,  and  attending  him,  when  not 
too  actively  discouraged,  to  various  borough  functions.  He 
always  felt  both  stimulated  and  afraid  in  his  father's  so- 
ciety. Monypenny  was  silent,  melancholy,  rather  terrifying, 
and  his  mind  seemed  to  seize  Ted's  and  shake  it  as  a  wolf 
shakes  a  lamb. 

But  a  change  had  taken  place  in  the  boy  unperceived  by 
his  father;  in  Becket 's  company  he  had  somehow  blundered 
into  the  municipal  idea.  Hitherto  his  love  of  Marlingate 
had  been  purely  aesthetic.  He  had  hated  to  see  its  ancient 
beauty  defaced,  to  watch  the  spreading  cancer  of  mean  dwell- 
ings in  its  heart,  to  see  the  tawdry  growth  of  New  Marlin- 
gate spoil  the  pure  pattern  of  Figg's  imagination.  But  Becket's 
prosings  had  somehow  led  him  into  a  new  conception.  He 
saw  the  beauty  not  only  of  Marlingate's  bricks  and  stones  but 
of  its  charter  and  constitution.  He  saw  the  dignity  and  se- 
renity of  its  life,  the  order  of  its  seasons,  and  saw  too  that  all 
this,  as  well  as  its  structure,  was  threatened  by  the  growing 
spirit  of  vulgarity  and  commerce.  The  contamination  of  other 
towns  entered  it  daily  through  its  Pier  gates,  and  now  the 
question  of  cheap  railway  excursions  was  soon  to  come  before 
the  Town  Committee.  This  measure  filled  Ted  with  an  ex- 


280  TAMARISK  TOWN 

ceptional  fury — he  thought  that  it  would  finally  degrade  the 
town — and  his  indignation  grew,  till  at  last  he  could  contain 
it  silently  no  longer,  and  resolved  to  "have  things  out"  with 
Monypenny. 

The  opportunity  was  given  by  a  walk  on  All  Holland  Hill. 
It  was  at  the  end  of  the  long  vacation,  a  soft  September  day 
of  copper  and  rust.  Ted  and  his  father  had  gone  for  one  of 
their  usual  walks,  talking  mostly  of  abstractions.  Mony- 
penny liked  to  have  the  boy  with  him — to  watch  his  brown 
eager  face  as  he  talked,  the  eyes  and  mouth  all  full  of  anima- 
tion— but  his  manner  was  as  usual  solemn  and  remote.  He 
looked  noticeably  older  now.  His  side  whiskers  were  as  white 
as  his  hair,  and  he  had  let  them  grow  a  little;  his  eyes  were 
becoming  cavernous,  and  his  skin  had  grown  stretched  and 
parchment  like,  giving  his  face  a  hard,  bony  look  which  it  had 
lacked  in  youth. 

They  were  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  before  they  followed 
the  path  down  to  the  Slide,  they  stood  still  for  a  moment  and 
looked  back  at  the  town.  The  sight  of  it  gave  Monypenny  a 
sudden  and  sinister  joy.  He  had  been  hammering  it  for  twenty 
years,  and  now  for  the  first  time  he  could  see  his  mark  upon  it. 
The  face  of  Marlingate  was  changing — it  was  growing  grey. 
There  was  grey  beside  the  Brook,  and  grey  on  the  Coney  Banks 
and  grey  on  the  Totty  Lands,  the  ugly  grey  of  the  new  houses. 
The  infection  had  spread  to  some  of  the  older  buildings,  which 
had  covered  their  old  red  faces  with  a  maquillage  of  stucco, 
now  and  then  even  throwing  out  a  bay  or  balcony,  aping  the 
unlovely  youth  of  "Balmoral"  and  "Midlothian,"  which  grinned 
across  from  the  Coney  Banks  like  a  row  of  false  teeth. 
There  was  the  Pier,  too,  now  dingy  with  the  storming  of  years 
on  inferior  substance;  and  at  the  north  end  of  the  town  there 
was  the  disorder  of  New  Marlingate,  with  its  scaffold  poles  and 
its  mixed  styles,  ranging  from  Figg's  noble  houses  in  Pelham 
Square  to  Lusted's  orgies  of  debased  gothic  and  the  frank  jerry- 
building  of  a  London  contractor. 


THE  BURNING  HEART  281 

His  contemplation  was  broken  by  Ted's  voice. 

"Father,  how  are  those  houses  letting?" 

"Which  houses?" 

"The  new  ones  at  the  back  of  Pelham  Square." 

"They  are  letting  very  well." 

Ted  was  slient  a  moment,  and  they  turned  on  their  walk 
towards  the  Slide.  Then  he  said: 

"But  are  they  letting  to  a  good  class  of  people?" 

Monypenny  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"I  don't  see  why  not." 

Each  reply  had  a  ring  of  finality  about  it,  as  if  it  were  a 
key  turned  in  a  door  which  Ted  must  not  seek  to  re-open. 
But  he  forced  himself  to  overcome  his  susceptibility  to  failure, 
and  knocked  on  at  the  closed  doors  of  his  father's  mind. 

"I  can't  feel  that  a  good  class  of  tenant  will  come  to  that 
very  inferior  kind  of  house." 

"You  consider  the  houses  inferior,  then?" 

"I  do." 

Monypenny  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Perhaps  they  are." 

Again  the  lock  clicked,  and  Ted  felt  hopelessly  discouraged. 
For  some  moments  they  tramped  in  silence  over  the  au- 
tumn hillside,  where  the  rust  was  eating  into  the  gold,  and 
the  brambles  knotted  heavy  purples  and  crimsons  into  the 
web  of  sad  colours  that  hung  over  the  hill.  Then  Ted  came 
once  more  to  the  attack,  and  this  time  more  desperately. 

"Father,  why  won't  you  talk  to  me  about  Marlingate?  .You 
know  I'm  interested  in  it,  and  yet  every  time  I  open  my  lips 
about  it,  you  shut  me  up." 

Monypenny  hesitated  a  moment,  then  replied — 

"Our  views  on  the  subject  are  not  the  same.  I  can  scarcely 
discuss  my  plans  for  Marlingate  with  you  as  long  as  you  are 
so  thick  with  a  man  who's  opposed  to  me  in  every  matter  of 
town  policy." 

"You  think  I'm  disloyal,  because  I'm  on  Becket's  side?" 


282  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"I  think  you  are  a  fool  to  be  on  the  side  of  a  fool." 

"Becket  may  be  a  fool  in  his  methods,  but  he's  perfectly 
sound  in  his  ideas." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you  there,  nor  does  anyone  else  in  the 
town." 

"Pelham  does,  and  Breeds  is  with  us  in  most  things." 

"Urn." 

"Of  course  I  know  that  the  majority  follow  you.  That's 
what  makes  me  so  sick.  I  mean — you  can  make  everyone  do 
what  you  want,  and  yet  .  .  .  Oh,  if  only  you  wanted  to 
keep  Marlingate  as  it  used  to  be,  instead  of  rushing  into  all 
this  cheap  expansion!  I  know  you  could  do  i£K  Lusted  and 
Lewnes  wouldn't  have  a  chance  against  you.  I  can't  think 
why " 

He  met  his  father's  eye  and  flushed. 

"It's  awfully  difficult  for  me  to  speak  to  you,  Sir.  But 
I'm  feeling  so  dreadfully  sick  about  the  way  things  are  go- 
ing." 

"What  do  you  mean  exactly?" 

"It's  hard  to  explain — just  the  trend  of  things — they're 
cheap.  Those  cheap  houses  .  .  .  and  then  the  Pier  .  .  . 
and  that  talk  of  letting  the  South  Eastern  run  day  excursions 
.  .  .  don't  you  see  how  that  kind  of  thing  will  drive  all 
the  decent  people  away?  And  the  other  sort  won't  make 
up  for  their  going,  even  if  they  come  in  much  greater  num- 
bers. I  can't  think  how  you  don't  see  it.  You're  so  damn 
clever.  You  must  see  it — and  yet  it  doesn't  seem  to  matter 
to  you." 

"And  does  it  matter  to  you?  You're  a  young  man  at  Ox- 
ford, and  must  have  better  things  to  think  about.  Can't  you 
turn  your  attention  to  the  affairs  that  concern  you?" 

"Marlingate  does  concern  me." 

"How?" 

"I  love  it." 

His  eyes  looked  angrily  and  passionately  into  his  father's, 


THE  BURNING  HEART  283 

and  Monypenny  stiffened  for  war.  At  the  same  time  a  pang  of 
regret  and  pity  went  through  him. 

"I  love  it,"  repeated  Ted — "I'm  awfully  keen  on  it;  and  I 
can't  bear  to  see  you  spoiling  it.  You  don't  care  about  Mar- 
lingate,  whatever  you  have  done  once — I  can  see  that  plainly, 
and  so  can  Becket.  The  only  thing  you  care  about  is  to  make 
it  pay,  and  one  day  you'll  over-reach  yourself  and  the  whole 
thing  ull  fall  to  pieces.  But  I  don't  think  you  care  about 
that  either.  Oh,  I  wish  you  cared!  We  could  work  together. 
I'm  to  be  an  architect — I  could  help  you  rebuild  Marlingate. 
We  could  make  it  beautiful  again — scrap  all  those  rotten 
houses — demolish  the  Pier " 

Monypenny  laughed. 

"A  pretty  program  for  the  next  Town  Committee  meeting! 
I  wonder  how  they'd  take  it." 

"You  could  get  it  through,"  cried  Ted  passionately — "you 
could  make  them  accept  anything.  That's  the  pity  of  it  all 
to  me.  You  could  do  all  this,  and  you  don't.  Please,  Sir, 
listen  to  me.  Between  us  we  could  make  Marlingate  splendid 
— we  could  kick  out  all  those  wretched  people  who  are  cheap- 
ening and  dirtying  it.  You  could  direct  and  manage  every- 
thing, and  I'd  design — I'd  try  to  be  what  Decimus  Figg  was 
in  the  beginning.  Oh,  Father  .  .  ." 

He  stopped.  Monypenny 's  face  was  quite  white.  Ted 
watched  him  anxiously — he  could  not  read  the  look  in  his  eyes. 
It  did  not  seem  to  be  anger  so  much  as  anxiety  and  pity. 
When  at  last  Monypenny  spoke  his  voice  was  quite  gentle. 

"Don't,  Ted — don't  waste  your  love  on  this  town.  It  will 
be  thrown  away.  Find  a  woman  and  love  her.  Flesh  and 
blood  are  better  than  bricks  and  mortar.  Don't  waste  your 
youth  on  a  stuffy  town.  Believe  me,  it  isn't  worth  it.  And 
as  for  my  policy,  it's  not  merely  the  result  of  the  greed  and 
indifference  to  which  you  alternately  ascribe  it.  It's  the  re- 
sult of  consideration.  We  differ,  but  my  opinions  are  as  firm 
as  yours." 


284  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"Then,"  said  Ted,  blazing,  "you  mustn't  mind  if  I  oppose 
you — publicly,  I  mean.  I  promised  Becket  that  if  he'd  or- 
ganise a  meeting  to  oppose  the  Day  Excursions,  I'd  speak  at 
it." 

"Nonsense!" — the  calm  of  Monypenny's  bearing  suddenly 
broke  down — "there'd  be  no  sense  in  that.  You'd  do  no  good 
— merely  create  a  scandal." 

"I  can't  help  that.  Anyhow  I  must  speak.  I'm  going  to 
do  all  I  can  to  stop  this  madness." 

"It  will  be  edifying  to  see  me  and  my  son  at  loggerheads 
in  the  town." 

"I  tell  you  I  can't  help  that.  I  must  try  to  save  Marlin- 
gate  from  its  Mayor  and  Corporation,  and  I  don't  see  what 
else  I'm  to  do." 

Monypenny  did  not  answer.  He  stood  still,  staring  down 
into  the  yellowing  trees  of  the  Slide.  Out  of  them  suddenly 
had  run  Morgan  le  Fay — her  crimson  dress  flew  behind  her  on 
the  wind,  and  her  eyes  shone  under  her  tangled  hair.  Her 
lips  were  parted,  and  he  saw  the  white  arc  of  her  teeth,  her 
tilted  smile  flying  up  to  her  tilted  eyes.  Then  suddenly  Becket 
looked  at  him  out  of  her  eyes,  and  a  little,  tinkling,  girlish 
laugh  broke  up  the  dream. 

"Lindsay!"  cried  Ted. 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  both. 

"You  didn't  know  I  had  come  back — did  you?  I  came 
back  last  night.  Here's  Papa — we've  been  over  to  French 
Landing." 

Becket  came  sweating  and  panting  out  of  the  wood.  There 
were  greetings  all  round,  and  in  the  end  the  party  joined  for 
the  walk  home.  Ted  and  Lindsay  went  on  ahead,  and  the  two 
fathers  walked  behind.  There  was  no  more  talk  of  borough 
matters — never  a  safe  subject  now  between  Monypenny  and 
Becket.  Instead,  the  merchant  raved  about  his  daughter's  re- 
turn, about  the  beauty  and  talent  she  had  brought  back  with 
her.  Monypenny  stared  at  her  dipping  skirts,  and  scarcely 


THE  BURNING  HEART  285 

knew  whether  he  loved  her  for  what  she  had  of  her  mother  or 
hated  her  for  what  she  had  not. 


S  I2 

Lindsay  Becket  was  a  shining  and  central  figure  in  Mar- 
lingate  during  that  Winter  season.  She  had  not  been  through 
a  seaside  winter  for  some  time.  Before  going  to  Weimar  she 
had  spent  a  couple  of  winters  in  London,  dancing  with  the 
Goldsmiths  and  the  Fishmongers  and  the  Haberdashers  and 
the  Merchant  Taylors  with  whom  her  father  dined.  She  was 
now  nearly  twenty-five,  but  a  graceful  immaturity  of  mind  and 
body  wiped  out  at  least  four  of  her  years. 

Monypenny's  eyes  leaped  to  her  every  time  he  entered  a 
room  where  she  was.  Something  in  her  alert,  swaying  car- 
riage— the  way  she  stood,  giving  an  impression  of  poise,  of 
the  balance  of  a  bird  on  a  bough — made  him  ache  with  the 
memory  of  her  mother.  She  was  a  little  taller  and  more  large- 
ly made,  but  her  movements  were  the  same.  Her  colouring 
was  the  same  too,  and  she  emphasised  it  by  the  colours  of  her 
gowns,  the  tansy  yellows,  the  bracken  browns,  that  had  made 
Morgan  like  a  blazing  October  tree.  He  was  too  manlike  to 
notice  the  difference  in  their  make — the  bunched  hips  instead 
of  the  flowing  hem,  the  squeamish,  narrow  decolletage  instead 
of  that  generous  gleaming  display  of  white  shoulders,  which 
used  to  make  a  man  at  the  old  Assemblies  feel  as  if  he  was 
watching  a  bed  of  floating  waterlilies.  He  noticed  more  read- 
ily the  difference  in  her  eyes  and  voice.  Her  eyes  were 
Becket's,  solemn  and  humourless — they  never  flashed  or 
flew,  like  Morgan's;  and  her  laugh  was  just  a  girl's  laugh,  un- 
certain and  sweet — he  remembered  how  Morgan's  laugh  had 
always  jarred  on  him  with  its  loud  mockery,  how  it  had  never 
passed  with  the  rest  of  her  into  civilisation,  but  had  always 
been  a  wild  laugh,  neither  sweet  nor  quite  human. 

He  danced  with  Lindsay  occasionally,  but  not  often,  for 


286  TAMARISK  TOWN 

any  long  or  close  communion  with  her  gave  him  pain — though 
he  could  never  tell  whether  the  pain  was  due  to  the  resem- 
blances or  the  differences  between  her  and  her  mother.  He 
was  not  now  the  untiring  dancer  he  used  to  be — he  was  over 
sixty,  and  his  breath  often  failed  him  after  exercise — but  he 
could  not  resist  Lindsay's  indefinite,  baffling  attraction.  Some- 
times he  asked  himself  whether  in  his  waltzes  with  her  he 
was  not  trying  to  create  an  illusion;  if  so,  it  was  an  illusion 
that  her  voice  and  her  look  continually  shattered,  but  he 
could  not  altogether  clear  himself  of  guilt. 

Lindsay's  feeling  towards  him  was  mixed.  She  liked  him 
because  he  interested  her  and  because  he  admired  her,  but 
she  also  found  him  at  times  curiously  repelling.  lis  life- 
long ignorance  of  women  and  mental  awkwardness  witn  them, 
instead  of  being  dispelled  by  twenty  years  of  marriage,  had 
only  increased.  She  was  quick  to  notice  it;  she  found  him 
stilted  and  formal,  and  his  old-fashioned  politeness  could  not 
hide  the  clumsiness  of  his  mental  approach  to  her  girlishness. 
Sometimes  he  saw  that  he  jarred  on  her,  and  would  revenge 
himself  by  drawing  her  out,  so  that  he  might  expose  and  de- 
spise her.  Once  he  asked — 

"Do  you  like  Marlingate?" 

And  she  answered  — 

"I  think  it  is  a  delightful  little  place." 

For  which  he  did  not  know  whether  to  love  or  hate  her. 

But,  in  spite  of  these  clashes,  she  never  rebuffed  him  or  re- 
refused  to  waltz  with  him.  She  once  told  a  friend  that  she 
danced  with  him  because  he  was  "easily  the  best-looking  man 
in  the  room." 

Marlingate's  winter  gaieties  were  now  a  trifle  shorn.  One 
or  two  of  the  more  aristocratic  visitors  had  seceded  to  Brigh- 
ton, in  the  wake  of  Raymond  Hurdicott;  the  Alaric  Papil- 
lons  were  at  Bulverhythe,  a  small  military  town  eight  miles 
west  of  Marlingate,  which  was  beginning  to  develop  a  Winter 
Season.  Lady  Cockstreet  was  dead;  she  had  died  that  Au- 


THE  BURNING  HEART  287 

tumn  in  her  Rye  Lane  villa,  unconscionably  old.  At  the  dances 
now  one  saw  young  folk  who  would  never  have  been  ad- 
mitted in  earlier  days.  The  ineligibles  of  Town  Councillors 
had  always  been  tolerated  in  their  fathers'  honour,  and  the 
blue  robe  of  an  Alderman  covered  not  only  the  sins  of  the 
fathers  but  of  the  children.  But  now  began  to  appear  the 
young  of  Gallops  and  of  tradesmen  unsanctified  by  any  mu- 
nicipal connection.  Moreover,  the  colonists  of  New  Marlin- 
gate  demanded,  but  did  not  deserve,  their  part  in  the  local  fes- 
tivities. The  result  was  that  genteel  mammas  became  remon- 
strant, and  complained  that  their  daughters  met  undesirable 
men.  One  or  two  select  and  dull  private  dances  were  given, 
but  the  public,  more  enjoyable  affairs  had  become  sadly  mixed. 
Monypenny  saw  that  the  town  was  losing  the  knack  of  com- 
bining gaiety  with  refinement — its  present  efforts  to  purge  it- 
self being  one  and  all  tainted  with  insipidity.  It  was  all  part 
of  his  campaign  against  Marlingate's  Winter  season — part 
of  his  strangle-hold  upon  it,  which  was  to  divert  the  streams 
of  life  that  ran  through  the  town  to  the  less  vital  Summer  sea- 
son, which  in  its  turn  would  soon  bloat  and  burst  like  an  over 
full  blood-vessel. 

Some  time  ago  the  Town  Council  had  been  approached  by 
the  South  Eastern  Railway  with  regard  to  running  cheap  day 
and  half-day  excursions  to  Marlingate  from  London,  Chat- 
ham, Erith  and  other  industrial  places.  In  those  days  Mony- 
penny had  seen  that  the  time  had  not  yet  come  for  such  a 
measure.  Nobody  but  Lewnes  and  Lusted  had  supported  it 
on  the  Town  Committee,  and  he  had  realised  the  folly  of  try- 
ing to  force  it  through.  But  now  he  had  shaped  the  spirit 
of  the  town  more  conformably — Benbow  had  joined  the  Com- 
mittee and  Hurdicott  had  left  it,  Tom  Potter  had  left  the 
town  in  '85,  and  had  been  succeeded  as  Town  Clerk  by  Mark 
Boas,  a  much  younger  man  of  go-ahead  tendencies.  The 
Progressives  had  increased  not  only  in  number  but  in  daring. 
The  calculating  purpose  and  indomitable  will  which  had 


288  TAMARISK  TOWN 

dragged  his  Aldermen  and  Councillors  after  him  in  every  en- 
terprise had  not  failed  him  yet.  Give  him  time,  and  he  knew 
that  he  could  put  practically  any  measure  through  the  Com- 
mittee and  the  Council  too. 

He  was  now  fairly  certain  that  there  would  be  a  majority  for 
day  excursions,  and  he  knew  that  such  a  concession  would  be 
a  long  stride  forward  in  the  path  of  squalor.  The  crowds 
brought  by  the  steamers  to  the  Pier  from  Margate,  Broad- 
stairs  and  Southend,  and  no  longer  sifted  by  pier-tolls — which 
had  been  abolished  four  or  five  years  ago — had  already  begun 
to  hurry  the  summer  gentry  out  of  Marlmgate.  The  Win- 
ter season  had  been  reduced  by  the  exodus  of  Hurdicotts  and 
their  kind,  and  the  lowering  of  the  residential  standard,  and 
now  the  Summer  season  was  to  be  put  out  of  action  by 
periodically  letting  loose  hordes  of  barbarians  among  those 
decent  and  well-bred  people  who  might  otherwise  be 
reckoned  upon  to  fill  Marlingate  from  May  to  October,  long 
after  the  Winter  notables  had  abandoned  it.  These  people 
were  already  complaining  of  the  steamer  excursions;  what 
would  they  say  when  excursion-trains  vomited  demoralised 
London  trippers  and  rowdy  factory  employees  into  the  sanc- 
tuaries of  the  Marine  Parade  and  the  Town  Park? 

His  only  trouble  was  Ted's  threat  of  opposition.  In  Ted 
he  would  have,  for  the  first  time,  an  opponent  who  was 
worth  considering.  Becket's  sentimental  platitudes,  Pelham's 
ornate  remonstrances,  the  futile  uncertainties  of  Breeds 
could  form  no  serious  obstacle.  But  Ted.  the  winged  adver- 
sary, with  his  tongue  and  his  heart  of  flame  .  .  .  Ted  with 
a  brain  as  good  as  his  father's,  with  a  zeal  as  fervent,  with 
a  love  as  strong  as  his  father's  hate  ...  he  would  probably 
have  as  deep  an  influence  as  Monypenny  on  the  waverers  of 
the  Town  Committee,  and  it  was  the  waverers  who  mattered 
in  a  case  like  this  when  the  definite  parties  were  small.  If  he 
and  Becket  organised  their  preposterous  meeting  it  was  quite 
possible  that  they  might  make  the  Progressives  kick  the  beam. 


THE  BURNING  HEART  289 

for  Monypenny  could  imagine  how  Ted  would  speak,  how  his 
youth  and  zeal  would  appeal  to  men's  feelings  as  his  father's 
passionate  reserve  could  never  do.  Hitherto  he  had  carried 
on  his  scheme  in  the  face  of  only  a  pottering  opposition,  but 
now,  at  a  critical  moment,  and  through  the  action  of  his  own 
flesh  and  blood,  that  opposition  might  become  formidable, 
perhaps  overwhelming. 

Sometimes  he  found  himself  the  prey  of  a  sick  and  foolish 
reaction.  If  Marlingate  mattered  so  much  to  Ted,  why  not  let 
him  do  as  he  wanted  with  it?  Why  not  stand  aside  and  let 
him  lift  the  town  out  of  its  declining  ways,  back  into  its 
ancient  glory?  Why  thwart  this  young  life  with  the  oppo- 
sition of  his  old  and  tired  revenge?  .  .  .  For  he  was  be- 
ginning to  be  tired  now,  to  feel  the  strain  of  his  unceasing 
conflict — of  the  continual  direction,  tricking  and  forcing  of 
weaker  minds  than  his  own.  He  was  Marlingate's  brain,  and 
that  brain  had  thought  too  many  long  thoughts. 

He  felt  that  he  would  like  to  put  out  his  arms  and  take 
into  them  Ted  and  Fanny,  and  warm  his  last  years  of  life 
with  their  kindness.  He  had  been  alone  all  his  life,  and  he 
would  like  to  spend  what  remained  of  it  in  company.  He  was 
over  sixty,  and  very  tired — perhaps  there  was  not  much  more 
to  come. 

But  if  ever  he  allowed  himself  to  think  like  this,  the  re- 
proach of  Morgan  would  come  back  to  him,  and  he  would  re- 
member her  as  he  had  loved  her,  and  as  he  had  forsaken  her. 
He  would  remember  her  as  he  had  last  seen  her,  on  fire  with 
passion  and  grief,  like  a  lovely  tree  with  its  death  upon  it  in 
gay  colours;  and  he  would  remember  her  grave  where 
Becket  had  laid  her,  under  the  carven  lies.  He  had  promised 
her  a  better  grave  than  those  mean  few  feet  of  earth  under 
Becket 's  tombstone;  he  had  promised  her  as  a  memorial  the 
piled  destruction  of  Marlingate,  its  streets  and  houses  and 
shops  and  trade  and  wealth  heaped  in  her  honour  like  the 
barrow  of  an  ancient  queen.  He  could  not  fail  her  now — dull 


290  TAMARISK  TOWN 

his  memory  and  his  promise  with  the  love  of  wife  and  child, 
drive  away  her  ghost  into  the  wind.  Hitherto  only  his  body 
had  been  unfaithful  to  her,  but  if  he  failed  her  now  he  failed 
her  with  his  soul,  and  he  must  keep  his  soul  true,  so  that  it 
could  go  to  her  at  last  in  the  shadow  where  she  lived. 

§13^ 

When  Ted  came  back  to  Marlingate  for  his  Winter  vaca- 
tion, Lindsay  no  longer  said  that  Monypenny  was  easily  the 
best-looking  man  in  the  room.  It  was  natural  that  she  should 
prefer  the  younger  man,  the  more  indefatigable  dancer,  and 
Monypenny  gave  her  up  to  him  with  rather  a  crooked  smile. 
What  he  could  not  understand  was  why  the  boy  did  not  fall 
in  love  with  her.  Much  as  Morgan's  daughter  lacked  of  her 
mother's  beauty,  or  rather  of  the  spirit  informing  it,  it  seemed 
impossible  that  any  man  could  fail  to  notice  her  pre-em- 
inence over  the  other  women,  and  yet  Ted  seemed  just  as 
happy  dancing  with  Dorothy  Lewnes  or  Mabel  Fulleylove  or 
Queenie  Cooper,  and  his  attitude  towards  Lindsay's  obvious 
favour  was  a  compound  of  denseness  and  naivete  which  made 
his  father  heartily  ashamed  of  him. 

However,  in  his  heart,  he  was  glad  that  the  expected  (by 
Lindsay,  by  himself,  by  the  town)  had  not  happened.  For 
one  thing  Ted  was  too  young — he  was  only  twenty-one,  and 
curiously  shifting  and  unformed;  for  another  the  marriage 
would  draw  closer  the  bonds  between  him  and  Becket  which 
Monypenny  wanted  to  have  severed.  But  there  was  another 
reason — more  subtle,  more  indefinite  than  these  practical  con- 
siderations, and  yet  also  far  more  vital  and  compelling.  Mony- 
penny felt  that  he  could  not  have  borne  to  see  the  love  of 
these  two  for  each  other — the  shadow  of  himself  loving  the 
shadow  of  Morgan  with  a  love  which  could  be  only  the 
shadow  of  their  love.  He  could  not  have  borne  it,  and  he 
was  glad  it  had  not  happened.  Nevertheless,  in  some  remote 


THE  BURNING  HEART  291 

back-country  of  his  mind  these  two  were  linked,  with  the 
glory  round  them  of  his  lost  love — which  it  seemed  myste- 
riously as  if  they  had  found  and  held  in  pledge  against  the 
day  when  he  could  claim  it. 

Perhaps  the  anxieties  of  the  father's  thought  worked  more 
powerfully  and  more  definitely  than  he  knew,  moulding  the 
hot,  soft  stuff  of  the  son's  heart,  melting  it  into  the  hard 
metal  of  Lindsay's,  which  was  to  hold  it  as  an  unfinished 
casket  holds  molten  silver — two  crude,  precious  things,  one 
containing  the  other  and  likely  to  be  broken  by  it.  For 
though  he  went  through  his  Winter  unimpressed,  when  he 
came  down  again  at  Easter  time  Ted  began  to  turn  towards 
Lindsay. 

There  was  nothing  obvious  or  violent — indeed,  the  first  ef- 
fect of  his  attraction  was  to  make  him  immensely  shy.  Mony- 
penny  noticed  nothing  but  an  increasing  restlessness,  which 
sometimes  appeared  to  be  linked  with  dissatisfaction,  some- 
times with  a  queer,  dreamy  excitement.  He  seemed  to  be 
growing  more  awkward,  more  inward,  and  Monypenny,  to 
whom  love  had  meant  development  and  escape  and  expan- 
sion, had  nothing  in  his  own  experience  to  link  this  moodiness 
and  silence  with  anything  but  the  increasing  jar  of  their 
relations. 

The  matter  of  day  excursions  had  been  shelved  at  the 
Spring  Town  Council  meeting,  and  would  not  come  up  again 
till  the  early  Summer,  by  which  time  he  considered  its  pros- 
pects would  have  still  further  improved.  He  put  down  the 
increase  in  Ted's  visits  to  the  Coney  Banks  to  the  spreading 
activities  of  the  opposition,  and  a  certain  surreptitiousness 
in  the  making  of  them  encouraged  this  idea.  Monypenny 
thought  of  interference,  of  issuing  the  law,  but  he  was  with- 
held partly  by  the  feeling  that  such  action  would  only  pre- 
cipitate matters,  partly  by  an  odd  reluctance  to  make  a  def- 
inite breach  with  Becket.  It  might  sound  ridiculous,  but 
Monypenny  could  never  quite  lose  that  queer,  occasional 


292  TAMARISK  TOWN 

sense  of  fellowship  with  the  merchant,  that  sense  of  sharing  a 
precious  thing — though  he  also  had  his  fits  of  alienation  and 
jealousy,  when  he  passionately  hated  Becket  for  keeping  a 
faith  that  he  had  been  unable  to  keep.  .  .  . 

He  would  have  been  surprised,  and  perhaps  not  quite  so  pa- 
tient, if  he  could  have  seen  Ted  sitting  in  the  drawing-room  at 
the  Coney  Banks,  his  head  thrown  back  against  the  cushions 
of  the  window-seat,  while  he  listened  to  Lindsay  Becket  sing- 
ing. It  was  the  drawing-room  where  the  plush-framed  mir- 
rors had  reflected  the  smouldering  dusk  behind  the  heads  of 
Morgan  and  Monypenny  as  they  leaned  together  in  some 
huge  scroll-backed  sofa  hung  with  antimacassars.  .  .  .  The 
mirrors  were  not  there  now — in  their  place  were  a  few  good 
water-colours,  and  some  Aubrey  Beardsley  drawings,  for 
Lindsay  liked  occasionally  to  think  herself  daring  and  fin  de 
si&cle.  She  would  sit  at  her  elegant  Bechstein  piano — her 
mother's  little  Collard  had  been  given  a  safe  and  sentimental 
refuge  in  her  father's  study — and  sing  little  German  songs  that 
haunted  Ted,  that  seemed  to  paint  his  mind  over  with  pic- 
tures of  fir  trees  and  snow  in  the  night. 

She  had  a  beautiful  voice,  which  sometimes  had  a  rather  at- 
tractive note  of  mockery  in  it,  and  she  was  often  asked  to 
sing  at  Marlingate  parties.  Here  she  sang  from  the  new 
Gilbert  and  Sullivan  operas,  or  scared  her  audience  with 
fragments  of  Wagner  or  delighted  them  with  Bizet.  Ted  liked 
to  think  that  she  kept  the  little  German  songs  for  him 
alone. 

Sometimes  after  the  party  he  would  see  her  home.  He 
would  walk  beside  her  in  a  kind  of  awe,  watching  her  grace- 
ful, shawled  head  and  shoulders  in  the  gleaming  moonlight, 
her  hair  that  broke  and  flew  from  under  her  shawl  like  spray, 
the  shine  of  her  little  satin  shoes  beside  his  feet  on  the  pave- 
ment. Those  were  cold,  still  nights,  with  a  path  of  moon- 
light over  the  sea,  and  All  Holland  Hill  and  Cuckoo  Hill 
blocked  against  a  sky  like  mother  o'  pearl.  It  was  strange 


THE  BURNING  HEART  293 

how  all  Marlingate  seemed  to  fade  and  drop  from  him,  leav- 
ing him  alone  with  Lindsay,  shut  up  in  the  little  soft  chamber 
of  her  presence.  They  seldom  found  much  to  say  to  each 
other,  but  occasionally  they  would  talk  of  the  time  when  he 
and  she  as  children  had  enjoyed  a  lawless  freedom  in  the 
town.  She  reminded  him  of  their  adventures,  of  the  shells 
they  had  bought  in  the  wooden  shops  down  by  the  Stade,  and 
the  mechanical  toys  they  had  loved  to  watch  at  the  Aquarium. 

"Do  you  remember  the  peasants  dancing  round  the  tree?" 

"And  do  you  remember  how  I  smashed  the  glass  of 
Mamma's  Drawing- Room?  I  never  go  to  the  Aquarium  now 
— it  depresses  me." 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  I  dunno.  It's  getting  shoddy — like  most  things  in 
Marlingate." 

"That's  what  Father  says — Marlingate's  going  dowa.  But 
it  must  have  been  lovely  when  we  were  children.  What  lit- 
tle wretches  we  were,  by  the  way!  Do  you  remember  the 
cakes  we  used  to  eat?" 

They  said  "Do  you  remember?"  many  more  times  before 
they  came  to  the  turn  of  the  Coney  Bank  steps  by  St.  Nich- 
olas' churchyard. 

"Do  you  remember  that  time  you  and  I  went  in  to  look  at 
your  mother's  grave,  and  the  awful  fright  we  got?" 

"Yes — from  your  father.  We  thought  he  was  a  ghost.  I 
must  say  he  looked  rather  creepy.  Do  you  know  that  he  still 
frightens  me  a  little?" 

"So  he  does  me." 

"It's  only  sometimes — but  it  comes  over  me  all  of  a  sudden. 
There  seems  to  be  something  in  him  that  makes  him  different 
from  us." 

"That's  just  how  I  feel." 

They  had  stopped  on  the  ascending  flight,  and  Lindsay's 
eyes  gleamed  out  of  the  shadows  on  her  face.  Beyond  the 
palings,  the  moonlight  swam  over  the  graves.  Then  suddenly 


294  TAMARISK  TOWN 

he  saw  her  look  as  she  had  never  looked  before;  a  queer,  fly- 
ing glance  came  into  her  eyes — he  saw  it  for  the  first  time, 
and  it  made  him  think  of  a  streak  of  sunshine  flashing  along 
a  wall  on  a  windy  day.  He  had  never  seen  her  like  this — 
with  this  queer,  flying,  sidelong  look — and  there  was  some- 
thing in  him  to  which  it  was  irresistible,  something  in  him 
which  seemed  to  go  out  to  meet  it,  with  an  ineffable  yearn- 
ing. .  .  . 

They  stood  gazing  at  each  other  on  the  Coney  Bank  steps, 
and  he  felt  her  hands  in  his,  firm  and  calm,  quite  unlike  her 
eyes.  Then  suddenly  his  self-control  broke  down,  and  his 
arms  went  round  her,  straining  her  all  warm  and  thrilling 
against  his  heart.  He  stood  on  the  step  below  her,  and  her 
head  drooped  against  his  neck,  so  that  his  mouth  moved  over 
her  hair  in  its  hungry  search  for  her  face.  Then  at  last  he 
found  her  lips  and  held  them  for  the  long  plighting  kiss.  The 
moonlight  swam  over  the  graves. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN 

§i 

THE  Spring  was  creeping  into  Marlingate — it  always  came 
into  the  town  a  little  furtively,  showing  itself  chiefly  in  the 
shop-windows  and  new-painted  house-fronts.  This  year  it 
seemed  to  have  a  greater  boldness,  perhaps  because  its  arti- 
ficial manifestations  were  a  little  less  emphatic.  The  new 
muslins  and  the  stucco  frontages  did  not  so  compellingly  with- 
draw one's  eyes  from  the  laburnum  drooping  over  garden 
walls,  nor  did  the  smell  of  paint  quite  drown  the  soft,  haw- 
thorn-scented airs  that  came  down  from  the  inland  fields. 

However,  with  the  exception  of  the  Marine  Hotel,  ad- 
vance bookings  were  good,  though,  on  the  whole,  for  shorter 
periods,  and  showing  a  tendency  to  concentrate  in  the  months 
of  July  and  August  instead  of  over-running  them  as  far  as 
May  and  October.  The  Marine  Hotel  was  indeed  rather  for- 
lorn— not  a  third  part  full,  and  having,  with  the  rest  of  the 
Parade,  lost  a  little  of  that  white,  shining  look  which  made  it 
like  a  temple  facing  the  sea.  It  had  been,  since  its  opening, 
the  pulse  of  Marlingate's  prosperity — full  in  its  good  times, 
but  of  late  slack  and  intermittent.  This  symptom  had  not 
much  impressed  anyone  besides  Monypenny  and  the  Hotel 
Company.  To  Lewnes  and  Lusted  and  their  crew  it  mattered 
little  who  filled  the  town  as  long  as  it  was  full — indeed  they 
would  rather  have  seen  it  crowded  from  lodgings  in  the  Totty 
lands  than  politely  sprinkled  from  the  Hotel.  But  those  who 
had  money  invested  in  the  Marine  Hotel  Company  had  been 

295 


296  TAMARISK  TOWN 

grumbling  for  some  seasons,  and  now — with  a  startling  drop 
in  the  already  decreasing  figure  of  patronage — they  began  to 
quake  for  their  investments,  and  say  that  the  Hotel  would 
never  go  through  another  bad  winter.  The  Pier  company  was 
not  paying,  either,  and  there  were  awkwardnesses  and  re- 
criminations about  the  Aquarium,  which  for  some  years  had 
been  carried  on  at  a  loss. 

All  these  signs  of  deterioration  were  comforting  and  en- 
couraging to  Monypenny,  but  with  his  triumph  was  mixed  an 
indefinable  regret.  He  hated  the  town,  and  he  had  resolved 
to  avenge  the  love  it  had  betrayed,  but  his  hatred  was  not  the 
pure  emotion  that  his  love  had  been — queer  currents  of  mem- 
ory ran  through  it,  bearing  reproaches  and  desires. 

One  of  these  reproaches  was  his  own  son.  During  the  last 
two  weeks  of  the  Easter  vacation,  reaching  on  into  May,  the 
change  he  had  begun  to  notice  in  Ted  became  more  obvious. 
Monypenny  now  felt  convinced  that  something  was  happen- 
ing to  him,  but  he  was  still  unable  to  guess  its  nature.  Per- 
haps it  was  the  growing  difficulties  of  the  Opposition,  per- 
haps the  approach  of  the  time  when  he  must  publicly  take 
action  against  his  father.  .  .  Monypenny  expected  the  fu- 
ture and  his  own  mind  to  show  him  the  boy's  trouble.  He  did 
not  expect,  after  what  had  passed  between  them  on  All  Hol- 
land Hill,  to  be  taken  into  his  confidence. 

He  was  accordingly  surprised  when  one  morning,  as  they 
sat  alone  in  the  dining-room  after  breakfast,  Ted  asked — 

"May  I  speak  to  you,  Sir?" 

He  was  turning  over  the  pages  of  a  new  number  of  the  Savoy 
with  fingers  that  shook  a  little.  Monypenny  was  reading  the 
Daily  News  with  the  same  stern  intentness  as  he  had  read  it 
every  morning  since  the  day  when  he  had  first  taken  it  out  of 
respect  to  Charles  Dickens. 

"Yes — what  is  it?" — thinking  that  some  bootless  and  rend- 
ing discussion  on  borough  politics  lay  before  him. 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN    297 

"May  we  go  into  your  study? — We  might  be  interrupted 
here." 

Monypenny  lifted  supercilious  eye-brows  over  suddenly 
anxious  eyes. 

"Just  as  you  please." 

They  went  into  the  study,  and  sat  down  in  the  two  leather 
arm-chairs  each  side  of  the  hearth,  where  Monypenny  had  sat 
and  talked  to  Becket  and  to  Lewnes  on  momentous  occasions. 

"Well?"  he  said,  wondering  how  often  he  was  to  hear  the 
words  "cheap  excursions"  during  the  next  ten  minutes.  Then 
suddenly  he  caught  sight  of  Ted's  face  and  he  was  baffled. 
Surely  nothing  municipal  could  produce  that  look  of  mingled 
shyness  and  triumph,  ecstasy  and  doubt,  joy  and  defiance, 
water  and  flame. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"Father — I've  been  wanting  to  tell  you  for  some  days.  I — 
I've  fallen  in  iove." 

A  pang  went  through  the  elder  man's  heart,  and  his  hands 
slowly  clenched  on  the  arms  of  his  chair. 

"So  you've  done  it  at  last — and  you've  come  to  tell  me — 
very  pretty  and  girlish  of  you." 

He  himself  was  astonished  at  the  bitterness  of  his  words, 
but  only  some  definite  brutality  could  relieve  his  inward  sense 
of  laceration. 

Ted's  face  went  pale,  and  the  glow  in  his  eyes  quenched, 
then  burned  again  with  a  new  and  harder  flame. 

"I  had  to  tell  you — because  I  know  you'll  be  displeased. 
You'll  hate  it." 

"Why?" 

How  could  Ted  know  that  his  father  was  jealous  of  him? — 
If  one  can  give  the  name  jealousy  to  a  starving  man's  feel- 
ing for  another  who  has  a  piece  of  bread. 

"Well,  you  see — it's  Lindsay  Becket." 

He  looked  anxiously  into  Monypenny's  face  for  the  disap- 
proval he  expected  to  see  there.  At  first  he  saw  nothing,  only 


298  TAMARISK  TOWN 

a  queer,  hardening  mask.    Then  suddenly  the  eyes  blazed,  the 
skin  parched,  the  mouth  twisted  and  opened — 

"You  fool!"  cried  Monypenny — "you  fool!"  Then  his 
voice  dragged  and  failed — "I  can't,"  he  said  almost  entreat- 
ingly. 

Ted  stared  at  him,  shocked  and  bewildered.  He  had  ex- 
pected opposition,  but  not  this  white-hot  anger,  this  con- 
tempt and  sorrow,  with  which  his  news  seemed  to  have  filled 
his  father  overwhelmingly.  He  wanted  to  go  on,  to  explain 
himself  further,  but  he  did  not  know  what  to  say.  After  this 
there  was  absolutely  no  knowing  how  the  governor  would 
take  any  remark  of  his. 

In  a  moment  Monypenny  spoke  again. 

"How  long  has  this  been  going  on?" 

"I've  only  just  told  her — but  I've  cared  for  her  some  time." 

"Nonsense!  You  didn't  care  tuppence  about  her  when  you 
were  here  at  Christmas." 

"But  ever  since  I  came  back  at  Easter.  ...  I  knew 
then  that  I— that  I  wanted  her." 

"And  you  call  that  'some  time.'  Very  well,  then.  Does 
she  care  for  you?" 

"Yes." 

"And  what  do  you  propose  to  do  about  it?" 

"Why— marry  her." 

Monypenny  said  nothing.  He  put  his  hand  over  his  eyes, 
as  if  he  could  darken  the  sight  of  his  mind.  The  vision  which 
tormented  him  was  not  the  vision  of  Ted  in  the  enemy's 
camp,  new-armed  against  his  father,  but  of  Ted  and  Lindsay, 
the  shadow  of  Monypenny  loving  the  shadow  of  Morgan.  He 
saw  all  that  there  was  of  himself  in  Ted  loving  all  that  there 
was  of  Morgan  in  Lindsay.  He  and  Morgan  were  both  dead, 
but  their  son  and  daughter  stood  before  them  saying,  "We 
are  the  resurrection  and  the  life." 

He  could  not  bear  it — this  terrible  resurrection  of  the  dead. 
He  quailed  before  the  triumph  of  love  as  years  ago  he  had 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN     299 

quailed  before  the  triumph  of  life.  What  purpose  of  man  could 
stand  before  these  two  terrible  things  which  no  grave  could 
hold?  ...  He  was  afraid  of  this  young  man  who  stood 
before  him  with  the  two  keys  of  the  world  in  his  hand — and 
suddenly  stumbling  to  his  feet,  he  went  hurriedly,  almost 
awkwardly,  out  of  the  room. 


§2 

Ted  was  astonished  at  his  father's  behaviour.  He  had  ex- 
pected difficulties — he  had  known  that  local  politics  would 
make  almost  unseemly  a  match  between  Monypenny's  son 
and  Becket's  daughter.  But  he  had  not  expected  this  con- 
sternation— his  father  had  seemed  really  stricken.  For  some 
time  he  hesitated  as  to  whether  or  not  he  should  follow  him 
out  of  the  room,  but  at  last  decided  to  leave  him  to  himself. 
This  strange  uncalled-for  emotion  must  work  itself  out.  In 
the  end  he  went  off  to  see  Lindsay,  to  spend  his  morning  in  shy 
ardours  and  fervent  timidities. 

When  he  heard  Ted  go  out,  Monypenny  went  back  to  the 
study.  He  threw  himself  into  his  chair  and  gave  himself  up 
to  a  prostration  of  helpless  thought.  Strangely  enough,  his 
mind  had  been  unprepared  for  what  had  happened.  He  had 
thought  of  the  love  of  Ted  and  Lindsay  only  as  a  terrible 
thing  which  had  been  spared  him.  Now  he  had  to  face  it, 
to  know  it,  and  to  bear  it — and  he  had  to  acknowledge  that 
it  was  dreadful,  almost  unendurable,  though  all  the  while  he 
wondered  angrily  why  this  should  be  so.  Why  should  this  re- 
production of  his  love  and  Morgan's  hurt  him  so  inexpress- 
ibly? He  ought  to  be  glad — he  ought  to  bless  these  chil- 
dren who  had  found  what  their  parents  had  lost.  Was  he 
jealous?  .  .  .  perhaps  he  was.  And  yet  Ted  did  not  love 
Lindsay  as  his  father  had  loved  Morgan.  Ted  loved  only  with 
the  little  bit  of  himself  which  was  his  father,  the  lit- 
tle bit  of  Lindsay  which  was  her  mother.  That  was  all. 


300  TAMARISK  TOWN 

But  this  marriage  must  be  stopped  at  all  costs — and  of 
course  he  could  stop  it.  Ted's  eager,  soft,  fiery  nature  could 
not  stand  before  the  bruising  iron  of  his  father's  will. 
Yet  ...  He  put  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  as  if  he  would  hide 
from  the  empty  room  the  pain  that  was  in  them.  He  could 
not  bear  the  thought  of  hurting  his  son,  and  he  knew  that 
he  would  hurt  him  terribly — crush  him — as  soon  as  he  put 
out  all  his  strength.  But  the  next  moment  his  heart  hard- 
ened, for  he  thought  of  his  own  love,  and  of  all  the  suffering 
that  had  come  from  its  betrayal — the  death-in-life  that 
was  his  marriage,  the  dead-man's-town  that  was  all  he  had 
left  of  Marlingate.  He  had  suffered  this,  and  out  of  his  suf- 
fering Ted  had  been  born  to  enjoy  what  his  father  had  lost. 
Monypenny's  heart  revolted  against  his  innocent  successor — 
he  should  not  enjoy  these  spoils  of  a  battle  more  terrible  than 
any  he  could  ever  face.  He  should  not  escape  his  father's 
tragedy.  The  father  himself,  whose  weakness  had  begotten 
him,  and  whose  weakness  he  perpetuated  and  personified, 
should  set  his  own  choice  before  him. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  began  walking  up  and  down  the 
room.  Hang  it  all!  He  supposed  he  couldn't  stop  Ted  mar- 
rying Lindsay  if  he  wanted  to,  but  at  least  he  should  do  it  at 
the  cost  at  which  his  father  would  have  married  Morgan.  He 
should  not  have  both  his  woman  and  his  town;  he  could  not 
have  them,  since  they  were  not  a  double  prize,  but  a  con- 
flicting choice — Ted  should  choose  between  them,  as  his  fa- 
ther had  chosen.  Then,  even  if  he  chose  Lindsay,  and  with 
her  entered  the  Paradise  from  which  his  father  was  shut  out, 
at  least  he  would  not  be  there  to  spoil  his  plans  in  the  wilder- 
ness. Monypenny  would  once  more  be  alone  with  Marlingate 
— its  one  redoubtable  champion  would  be  gone. 

He  was  growing  more  resigned.  He  was  beginning  to  see 
that  it  was  inevitable  that  he  should  have  to  watch  his  son 
building  up  either  the  town  he  had  destroyed  or  the  love  he 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN     301 

had  lost.     In  the  irony  of  the  repeated  choice  the  bitterness 
of  his  heart  found  a  certain  satisfaction. 


§3 

However,  he  did  not  meet  Ted  that  evening  with  any  real 
confidence.  Fanny  and  Sue  as  usual  took  their  wools  into 
the  drawing-room,  where  Monypenny's  conventions,  surviving 
into  the  nineties,  forbade  him  to  join  them  with  his  after- 
dinner  cigar.  Ted's  cigarettes  must  also  be  smoked,  rather 
unwillingly,  in  his  father's  study,  and  here,  in  the  midst  of 
the  heavy  mahogany  furniture  which  had  loomed  over  so 
many  conflicts,  and  a  litter  of  paper  embossed  with  the  bor- 
ough arms,  and  of  plans  and  designs  and  accounts  dating 
from  Figg's  expensive  dreams  to  the  shoddy  reach-me-downs 
of  today,  Monypenny  faced  Ted  with  the  riddle  which  he 
himself  had  failed  to  answer  more  than  twenty  years  ago. 

The  preliminaries  were  short,  no  more  than  the  lighting 
of  a  cigar  and  a  cigarette,  and  a  look  that  was  half  challeng- 
ing, half  exploring. 

"I've  been  thinking  over  what  you  told  me  this  morning," 
said  Monypenny,  "and  I've  decided  that  it's  quite  impossi- 
ble." 

"Impossible?" 

"Yes." 

Ted  wished  that  his  father  would  not  start  every  discus- 
sion by  locking  up  and  putting  away  the  subject. 

"I  don't  see  how  it's  impossible,"  he  ventured  desperately, 
"I'll  own  that  it's  inconvenient — difficult — but  I  feel  sure  that 
we  ...  that  you  .  .  .  that  we  could  somehow  manage  to 
understand  each  other,  if  only  we  could  talk  things  over." 

"The  marriage  would  be  unseemly." 

"I  don't  see  why.  Surely  our  local  factions  aren't  so  hope- 
less as  all  that." 

"Not  to  you,  perhaps." 


302  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"But  you  meet  Becket  socially." 

"Formally." 

Ted  felt  irritated.  "Then  I  can't  see  what  difference  my 
marriage  will  make.  You  can  still  go  on  meeting  him  for- 
mally." 

"Not  a  bit.  The  whole  situation  would  become  at  once  im- 
mensely complicated.  Besides,  that's  not  my  only  objection, 
nor,  indeed,  my  chief  one.  You're  too  young." 

Ted  flushed. 

"I'm  twenty-two." 

"That's  too  young  for  the  step  you  are  wanting  to  take — 
to  marry  the  daughter  of  your  father's  chief  opponent,  a  wo- 
man many  years  older  than  yourself." 

"Lindsay's  only  a  year  or  two  older  than  I  am." 

"You  are  very  young  for  your  age — raw — inexperienced — 

ignorant "  his  father  rasped  out  at  him.  Ted  had  never 

seen  him  in  such  a  mood,  he  was  conscious  of  an  unreason- 
ableness in  him,  a  certain  excitement,  and  it  helped  him  re- 
tain his  own  balance  better  than  he  might  have  done  if  Mony- 
penny  had  offered  his  usual  calm  and  frigid  opposition. 

"i'm  sorry,  Sir.  I'm  sorry  you  think  so  badly  of  me.  But 
in  this  case  I  really  do  know  my  own  mind." 

"How  can  you?  You've  never  been  in  love  before.  You 
don't  know  what  love  is." 

"I  do  know  what  love  is." 

"How  can  you? — Prove  it,  then." 

"I  will  prove  it — by  marrying  Lindsay." 

Monypenny  saw  that  his  emotions  were  exposing  him  to  de- 
feat. He  made  an  effort  and  mastered  himself. 

"For  your  own  sake  I  don't  want  you  to  rush  headlong  into 
this.  Why  should  you?  There's  no  hurry — you  have  plenty 
of  time." 

Ted  was  not  placated. 

"You  want  me  to  wait  because  you  think  there's  a  chance 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN     303 

of  my  changing  my  mind.  I  tell  you  I  won't  change — and 
I  won't  wait." 

"Indeed.    Then  what  do  you  propose  to  do?" 

"Marry  Lindsay  as  soon  as  she  will  have  me.  I've  thought 
it  all  out,  and  I've  talked  it  over  with  her.  She's  quite  ready." 

"Does  she  realise  how  you  stand — that  you  have  nothing 
but  two  hundred  pounds  a  year — no  profession  and  no  quali- 
fication for  any  profession — and  that  your  prospects  at  my 
death,  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  are  exceedingly  poor?" 

The  boy  coloured. 

"Lindsay  knows  all  about  me." 

"Not  quite  all.  I  don't  think  you  know  quite  all  your- 
self. Anyhow  you  don't  realise  it.  You  don't  realise  that 
if  you  insist  on  marrying  her,  even  in  keeping  up  this  mock- 
ery of  an  engagement,  I  wash  my  hands  of  you.  You'll  have 
to  look  out  for  yourself." 

Ted  was  astonished.  He  had  not  remotely  imagined  that 
Monypenny's  opposition  would  take  so  brutal,  practical  and 
old-fashioned  a  shape.  Any  form  of  argument,  inducement  or 
interference  was  to  be  expected,  but  not  this  drastic  assump- 
tion of  the  part  of  heavy  father — he  grew  angry,  because 
Monypenny  made  him  feel  like  a  young  man  in  a  melodrama. 

"You  understand,"  continued  the  voice  which  was  so  curi- 
ously cold  and  deep — "if  you  don't  try  to  shake  off  this  in- 
fatuation— and  I'll  give  you  all  the  help  I  can,  send  you  out 
to  Switzerland,  the  Tyrol,  Germany,  anywhere  you  like  this 
Summer — I  simply  refuse  to  be  responsible  for  you  any  longer. 
You'll  have  to  leave  Oxford,  and  if  you  think  you  can  marry 
on  two  hundred  a  year  and  no  prospects  ..." 

"I  can  write.    The  Savoy  took  a  thing  of  mine  last  year." 

"And  paid  you  a  guinea  for  it,  if  I'm  not  mistaken.  You 
won't  make  much  out  of  that.  Besides,  I  always  understood 
that  you  meant  to  be  an  architect,  a  profession  which  requires 
special  training  and  the  payment  of  heavy  fees.  There  won't 


304  TAMARISK  TOWN 

be  any  good  counting  on  your  father-in-law;  he's  been  hard 
hit  over  the  Marine  Hotel  and  other  local  companies." 

"I  shouldn't  dream  of  counting  on  him." 

"No — I  suppose  you'd  shelve  him  in  the  same  way  as  you're 
shelving  me." 

"I'm  not  shelving  you.  I've  proved  that  by  coming  out  of 
my  way  to  ask  your  advice — for  which  you  laughed  at  me  this 
morning." 

Monypenny  remorsefully  relented. 

"Don't  let's  quarrel,  Ted.  I  only  want  to  put  the  matter 
before  you.  Give  up  this  girl,  and  you  shall  spend  the  Sum- 
mer abroad  or  do  anything  else  that  you  think  will  help  you  to 
forget  her.  Then  finish  your  time  at  Oxford,  and  after  that 
you  can  have  a  course  of  architecture  in  Germany  or  Switz- 
erland, and  finally  be  articled  to  some  really  good  man.  111  do 
that  for  you,  and  welcome.  But  if  you  persist  in  having 
her " 

"Well,  what  will  happen  then?" 

"Need  I  tell  you?  Can't  you  imagine  what  will  happen  when 
you  want  to  marry  on  two  hundred  a  year?" 

"I  don't  care." 

"One  thing  that  will  happen  is  that  you  will  have  to  leave 
Marlingate — you  and  Becket  won't  be  able  to  block  the  Pro- 
gressives any  longer." 

"You  won't  mind  that." 

"No — but  I  thought  perhaps  you  might." 

Ted's  mouth  twitched. 

"I'll  still  be  able  to  work  for  Marlingate  even  if  I'm  mar- 
ried." 

"Not  if  you  marry  like  this.  You'll  have  to  go  somewhere 
where  you  can  pick  up  some  sort  of  a  living.  Besides,  your 
career  as  an  architect  .  .  .  you  haven't  thought  of  that." 

"Do  you  really  believe  that  my  career  is  worth  the  sac- 
rifice of  my  love?" 

"That's  for  you  to  decide." 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN    305 

There  was  silence  in  the  room  among  the  heavy  shadows. 
The  firelight  swept  in  a  fan  over  the  ceiling,  then  died  into  a 
subdued  flicker  and  jig  of  arabesques.  Monypenny  watched 
Ted's  face.  He  had  put  his  choice  before  him — and  he  did 
not  yet  know  how  he  would  choose.  In  spite  of  the  boy's 
swaggering  words  the  matter  was  not  settled.  He  himself  had 
spoken  many  swaggering  words  of  love  to  Morgan,  and  yet 
Marlingate  had  had  him  in  the  end.  .  .  . 

"Don't  make  up  your  mind  in  a  hurry,"  he  said  rather  ner- 
vously— "think  it  over  tonight.  I've  put  the  matter  squarely 
before  you,  and  you  can  choose." 

"I've  made  up  my  mind  already,"  said  Ted  moodily,  "and 
a  night — or  a  week — won't  make  me  change  it.  But  there's 
no  good  arguing  here,"  and  he  got  up  and  swung  towards  the 
door.  There  he  paused,  and  said  rather  stiffly — "Good  night." 

"Good  night,"  said  Monypenny. 

He  felt  shaken,  but  no  longer  at  the  thought  of  Ted's  choice 
so  much  as  at  the  thought  of  how  he  wanted  him  to  choose. 
Hitherto  he  had  felt  that  he  would  prefer  even  the  prospect 
of  his  continued  interference  in  Marlingate  to  the  sight  of  him 
married  to  Lindsay,  with  his  shadowy  love  vindicating  it- 
self where  his  father's  consuming  passion  had  failed.  But 
now  he  saw  that  somehow,  during  their  argument,  his  base 
had  shifted.  He  wanted  this  boy,  the  inheritor  of  his  life,  to 
be  set  free  from  the  bondage  that  had  crushed  his  father.  He 
could  not  bear  to  see  Marlingate  destroy  Ted's  love  as  it  had 
destroyed  his  own.  Ted  must  not  choose  Dead-Man's  Town, 
for  it  had  nothing  to  give  him;  it  would  merely  take  all  he 
had — his  youth,  his  hope,  his  love,  his  imagination.  .  .  . 

He  saw  Marlingate  as  Morgan  had  seen  it  long  ago,  as  a 
thing  that  beat  and  clung  and  crushed,  as  a  prison-house,  and 
in  his  heart  he  pleaded  with  his  son  as  Morgan  had  so  often 
pleaded  with  himself — "Don't  let  this  place  get  hold  of  you, 
don't  let  Dead-Man's  Town  eat  your  bones  as  it  has  eaten 
mine.  I  gave  my  youth  and  my  love  and  my  glory  to  it,  and 


306  TAMARISK  TOWN 

it  has  given  me  tears  and  dust.  Don't  choose  as  I  chose,  lest 
you  should  be  one  day  what  I  am  now.  Here's  your  chance 
of  escape — take  it — run  out  of  this  city  of  destruction  with 
your  singed  garments  smelling  of  fire." 


§4 

Ted  breakfasted  early  the  next  morning,  so  as  to  avoid  his 
father,  and  directly  afterwards  went  out  to  find  Lindsay.  He 
found  her  in  the  fin-de-siecle  drawing-room  on  the  Coney 
Banks,  pinning  on  a  straw  hat  in  front  of  a  small  copper- 
framed  mirror. 

"I  was  going  out  to  look  for  you  on  the  Hill,"  she  said, 
blushing  as  he  kissed  her. 

"I  want  a  good  long  talk  with  you,"  said  Ted.  "Lindsay, 
the  governor's  cut  up  even  worse  than  I  thought." 

"Oh,  dear!" 

"He's  simply  sick — he's  simply  frightfully  sick.  What  does 
yours  say?" 

"Oh,  he's  pleased,  of  course.    But  he  won't  like  your  father 
minding  so  much.    He  always  wants  to  be  friends  with  your 
father,  even  though  he  thinks  differently  about  the  town." 
v     "Do  you  think  that  when  he  finds  my  dad's  against  it,  he'll 
be  against  it  too?" 

"N-n-no.  Only,  of  course,  Ted,  he  doesn't  think  we're 
going  to  be  married  for  ages.  He's  no  idea  we  want  to  be  mar- 
ried soon." 

"Oh,  Lord!  They  are  a  nuisance.  I  can't  think  what's  upset 
my  governor  so.  Of  course  it's  a  bit  awkward,  he  and  your 
father  being  cuts  on  the  Town  Committee,  but  he's  never 
meddled  with  my  politics  before — he's  never  tried  to  prevent 
my  coming  here — it's  only  the  marriage  that  upsets  him." 

"Perhaps  he  wants  you  to  marry  someone  else. 

"Whew! — I  wonder  who  it  is.  Miss  Lewnes  or  Miss  Lusted 
or  Miss  Benbow — Help!  No,  if  you  ask  me,  he's  set  against 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN    307 

the  idea  of  my  marrying  at  all.     He  says  I'm  too  young." 

"And  I  suppose  he  thinks  I'm  a  wretched  cradle-snatcher." 

"I  don't  know  what  he  thinks — I  can't  make  him  out. 
There's  only  one  thing  I'm  sure  of  and  that  is  that  he  doesn't 
know  anything  about  love." 

Lindsay  nodded  her  head  wisely. 

"You  should  have  heard  the  arguments  he  brought  up 
against  my  marrying  you,"  continued  Ted — "cold,  materialistic, 
trumpery — and  he  actually  said  that  if  I  went  abroad  for  three 
months  I'd  forget  all  about  you.  He  can't  ever  have  been  in 
love  in  his  life." 

"Well,  I  daresay  people  didn't  fall  in  love  when  he  was 
young — at  least  not  like  us.  They  were  afraid  of  their 
passions." 

"Early  Victorians!" 

"Yes,  that's  just  it.  You  can't  imagine  an  Early  Victorian 
falling  violently  in  love  with  anyone  ...  it  would  be  all  crino- 
lines and  antimacassars.  You  know  what  this  drawing-room 
used  to  be  like  before  I  took  it  in  hand — you  can't  imagine 
anyone  making  love  in  it." 

"But  your  father  loved  your  mother — I've  often  heard  how 
devoted  he  was  to  her." 

"Yes — he's  never  been  the  same  man  since  her  death.  But 
I  expect  they  were  an  exception;  I  can't  think  that  your 
father " 

"No,  dear,  nor  can  I.  If  he'd  ever  been  in  love  he'd  have 
understood  better  about  you  and  me." 

"But  he — Ted,  he  can't  prevent  us  marrying?" 

"Of  course  he  can't.  It  isn't  even  as  if  I  was  dependent  on 
him — we  can  easily  manage  on  what  I've  got,  and  on  what 
I'll  make  besides." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  won't  it  be  wonderful!" 

They  were  crouching  together  on  the  hearth-rug,  in  front  of 
the  small  spring  fire.  The  sunshine  poured  down  on  them 
through  the  big  bow  window  over  which  now  no  curtains 


308  TAMARISK  TOWN 

drooped,  and  dusted  their  hair  and  faces  with  a  queer  golden 
bloom.  Lindsay  shuffled  closer  to  him  on  her  knees,  and  her 
arms  stole  round  his  neck,  drawing  his  cheek  down  to  hers. 

"Ted — let's  talk  about  it  ...  when  we're  married." 

"Shall  you  tell  your  father?" 

"No,"  said  Lindsay  wisely — ''I  think  not — not  until  after- 
wards. He  might  be  worried,  you  know — your  father  so  set 
against  it,  and  all  that.  But  afterwards,  when  it's  happened 
and  he  can't  do  anything,  then  I  don't  think  he'll  mind." 

"When  is  it  going  to  happen,  Lindsay?" 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  the  two  dark  heads,  pow- 
dered with  sunshine,  seemed  to  fuse  together  in  the  golden  light. 
The  sunshine  was  so  bright  that  all  colours  were  drunk  up  in  it 
— only  a  golden  boy  and  girl  knelt  together  among  the  dancing 
motes. 

"Ted,  darling — let's  have  it  soon." 

His  arm  was  round  her  waist,  and  drew  her  close,  with  the 
timid,  thrilling  pressure  she  loved  so  in  Ted  Monypenny. 

"It  must  be  soon — things  will  only  get  worse  if  we  wait." 

"I've  been  thinking.  Next  week,  you  know,  I  go  to  Louisa's. 
Couldn't  you  make  some  excuse  to  go  up  to  town,  and  we'd  be 
married  then?  It  would  be  much  easier  than  going  off  together 
from  here." 

"Yes  .  .  ." 

She  looked  up  sharply. 

"Why  do  you  say  'yes'  like  that?  Didn't  you  mean  it  to  be 
so  soon?" 

He  had  not  meant  it  to  be  so  soon,  but  he  could  not  tell 
her. 

"It's  only  this — you  see,  dear,  I'm  helping  your  father  or- 
ganize a  campaign  against  day  excursions.  There's  a  big 
meeting  to  come  off  next  month,  and " 

"Ted!" 

"My  darling "  She  had  slipped  from  his  arm,  and  knelt 

upright  before  him. 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN     309 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  thinking  about  that  now?" 

"Why  not?— I've  got  to  think  of  it.  Of  course,  I  ..."  he 
hesitated.  He  could  not  tell  her  how  the  day  before  he  had  re- 
nounced his  career  and  Marlingate  for  her  sake. — "Well,  I  feel 
I  want  to  do  just  that  much  first.  If  only  I  could  knock  out 
those  beastly  day  excursions,  then  I'd  feel  I'd  at  least  done 
something  for  Marlingate  before  I  left  it." 

"But  what  does  Marlingate  matter?  Oh,  Ted — you  don't 
mean  to  say  you  care  for  Marlingate  more  than  me?" 

"Of  course  not" — and  he  laughed  with  knowing  bitterness, 
"but  I  don't  want  to  leave  this  particular  job — I  mean,  it's 
partly  for  your  father's  sake,  and — and " 

"If  it's  only  a  silly  old  meeting,  surely  you  could  speak  at  it 
after  we're  married.  You'd  have  to  come  down  from  Oxford, 
anyhow." 

"You  don't  understand,  dear.  When  I  marry  you,  I'm  out 
of  Marlingate — for  a  time,  at  any  rate.  I've  had  to  choose 
between  you  and  Marlingate,  and  I've  chosen  you,  and  I'd 
rather  have  you  than  anything  else  in  the  world." 

"And  yet  you  want  to  postpone  our  marriage  for  a  wretched 
meeting." 

"It  isn't  only  the  meeting — it's  the  whole  campaign." 

"When  did  you  mean  to  get  married,  then?" 

"I  thought  early  in  the  Vac." 

"Anything  may  have  happened  by  then,  and  anyhow  Father 
will  be  in  town,  and  I  shan't  be  any  longer  at  Louisa's.  It'll 
be  hopeless,  I  tell  you  .  .  .  and  all  for  this  stupid  Marlingate." 

"Lindsay,  you  don't  know  what  this  town  means  to  me." 

"It  means  more  than  me,  anyway." 

She  was  crying  now,  with  bowed  sun-smitten  head. 

"I've  cheapened  myself,"  she  sobbed — "I'm  more  eager  for 
our  marriage  than  you  are.  I've  been  forward,  and  begged  you 
to  marry  me  sooner  than  you  care  to.  ...  I've  shown  you  that 
I  want  you  more  than  you  want  me.  I'm  doing  all  the  offering 
and  the  giving.  ..." 


310  TAMARISK  TOWN 

''Lindsay,  don't  .  .  ."  he  cried,  swallowing  his  own  tears,  and 
seized  her  with  a  new  tender  roughness,  dragging  her  up  against 
him,  and  fondling  and  kissing  her  so  that  her  pretty  hair  was 
loosed — "don't  Lindsay.  Forgive  me.  .  .  .  I've  been  a  beast. 
We'll  be  married  next  week — I  want  you  far  more  than  you 
want  me." 

"More  than  you  want  Marlingate?" 

"A  hundred  times  more." 

"Oh,  Ted,  I'm  a  fool,  but  I  thought  .  .  ." 

"Then  you  were  a  fool.  I  only  meant — oh,  never  mind  what 
I  meant.  Marlingate  can  go  to  blazes.  I  don't  care  about 
anything  but  you.  Come,  Lindsay,  my  precious  darling — come 
away.  We're  going  to  show  these  early  Victorian  people  what 
love  is." 

§5 

During  the  ten  days  or  so  before  his  return  to  Oxford,  Ted 
and  his  father  did  not  exchange  a  single  word  about  their  dif- 
ferences. There  was  now  and  then  a  little  conversational 
prowling,  but  neither  was  inclined  to  tackle.  Ted  felt  sad 
and  estranged — he  had  always  admired  his  father,  and  thought 
it  cruel  that  he  should  now  be  separated  from  him  in  the  two 
most  vital  matters  of  his  life.  Somehow,  he  did  not  feel  the 
same  need  of  his  mother's  sympathy,  warmer  and  readier  as  it 
was.  Fanny's  sympathy  lacked  that  definiteness  which  would 
have  made  it  a  support.  Also  he  knew  that  no  matter  how 
softly  she  might  speak  or  how  much  she  might  seem  to  under- 
stand, in  her  heart  she  was  with  his  father,  humbly  sure  of  his 
wisdom. 

"Your  father  must  know  best,  dear,"  she  said  more  than 
once. 

Monypenny,  on  his  side,  was  more  fretted  by  the  tension 
of  those  days  than  he  would  care  to  admit.  He  wanted  to  know 
how  matters  stood  with  Ted.  Had  he  definitely  chosen? 
What  was  he  going  to  do?  Sometimes  he  grew  furious  at  the 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN     311 

boy's  silence.  How  dared  he  shut  up  his  mind  so  that  his 
father  could  not  read  it?  He  was  tempted  to  tear  open  those 
sealed  covers — after  all,  it  would  be  easy  enough  to  bully  Ted. 
But  he  was  withheld  by  many  restraints.  He  felt  unequal  to 
the  pain  of  another  discussion,  to  a  further  revelation  of  this 
love  which  wounded  him  with  its  ignorance  and  its  sweetness. 
Besides,  he  knew  how  matters  would  end — Ted  would  marry 
Lindsay;  he  would  have  told  his  father  if  he  had  decided  other- 
wise. His  silence  meant  perseverance  in  his  choice,  planning 
for  its  fulfilment.  He  was  often  out,  and  often  alone — he  was 
planning  his  escape,  his  freedom.  Monypenny  ought  to  be  glad, 
for  now  he  would  be  free  to  finish  his  life's  work;  there  would 
no  longer  be  any  danger  of  a  serious  opposition  to  his  plans. 
Besides,  this  boy  whom  he  loved  would  be  free  of  the  snare  in 
which  he  himself  had  been  taken ;  he  would  not  lie"  broken  in 
the  streets  of  Dead  Man's  Town  ...  his  father's  heart  ought 
to  rejoice  at  his  escape,  and  yet  that  heart  was  human  enough 
to  be  torn  with  a  human  jealousy  at  the  sight  of  his  son 
treading  the  free  road  his  own  feet  would  never  know. 

It  was  characteristic  of  them  both  that  he  never  discussed 
the  situation  with  Fanny.  He  briefly  informed  her  of  it,  and 
listened  in  silence  to  the  few  comments  she  had  to  make. 
Fanny  was  inwardly  grieved  that  her  husband  should  oppose 
her  son  in  this  as  well  as  in  less  understandable  town  matters. 
She  was  a  little  afraid  of  Lindsay  Becket,  whose  hard,  shining 
ways  abashed  her,  but  if  Ted  loved  her  it  seemed  cruel  that  he 
should  be  denied.  However,  she  was  far  too  loyal  to  Mony- 
penny to  admit  the  smallest  exaggeration  or  unreasonableness 
in  his  opposition.  She  made  some  feeble  efforts  to  persuade 
her  son  into  a  submissive  mood,  and  resolutely  silenced  Sue 
•  Vidler — the  only  person  with  whom  she  was  ever  emphatic — 
when,  chiefly  from  a  scaffolding  of  overhead  phrases,  she  tried 
to  discuss  the  matter  and  attach  the  blame  she  thought  due. 

Lindsay  went  up  to  London  on  thej  twelfth  of  May  to  stay 
with  her  half-sister  Louisa,  and  Ted  returned  to  Oxford  two 


312  TAMARISK  TOWN 

days  later.  He  seemed  to  become  anxious  and  low-spirited  di- 
rectly Lindsay  went  away,  and  Monypenny  almost  contempt- 
uously compared  his  attitude  with  his  own  towards  the  absences 
of  Morgan.  He  had  never  moped  or  pined  in  the  midst  of  his 
certainties,  which  were  as  great  in  her  absence  as  in  her  pres- 
ence. He  might  have  written  to  her  sadly  of  the  lonely  Mayor 
in  Tamarisk  Town,  but  only  the  poet  in  him  had  lamented, 
seeking  beauty  in  sorrow — since,  through  her,  he  had  learned 
to  find  beauty  everywhere. 

But  Ted's  unhappiness  was  not  due  merely  or  chiefly  to 
the  weakness  of  a  love  unable  to  sustain  itself  away  from  the 
loved  object — it  was  due  to  the  rising  up  of  emotions  which 
in  the  presence  of  Lindsay  he  had  been  able  to  keep  submerged. 
He  felt  the  reproach  of  Marlingate.  There  was  no  use  telling 
himself  that  his  desertion  was  only  temporary,  that  he  would 
come  back  and  bring  more  power  with  him.  The  fact  stood 
that  he  was  deserting  the  town  in  its  hour  of  utmost  need. 
Another  year,  even,  and  he  might  have  put  the  Opposition  on 
its  legs.  ...  Of  course  Becket  would  still  be  there,  but  he 
knew  quite  well  that  Becket  was  a  potterer  and  a  blunderer, 
with  no  definite  party,  no  loyal  supporters — just  a  vexatious 
branch  in  the  torrent  of  Progress,  which  would  soon  rush  him 
out  of  its  way.  In  a  few  years  from  now,  probably,  the  harm 
would  have  been  done  and  Marlingate  trodden  into  the  mud 
of  a  vulgar  policy. 

Sometimes  his  heart  was  as  hot  against  his  father  for  his 
municipal  as  for  his  matrimonial  opposition — he  showed  him- 
self as  wrong-headed  in  the  one  as  in  the  other,  and  acted,  it 
seemed  to  Ted,  more  out  of  character.  What  was  his  father 
doing,  asked  the  boy,  in  this  galley  of  Lewneses  and  Lusteds? 
— he  who  might  have  steered  the  town  like  a  stately  ship 
through  all  the  shoals  of  its  adversity.  He  was  indifferent,  he 
was  callous,  he  was  materialistic,  he  was  cynical — his  attitude 
towards  the  town  was  much  the  same  as  his  attitude  towards 
love. 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN     313 

But  his  reproach  of  his  father  was  really  only  a  part  of  his 
own  self-reproach,  during  those  days  when  he  was  alone  with 
Marlingate,  making  his  excuses  and  farewells.  Sometimes  he 
felt  that  it  was  thoughtless  of  Lindsay  to  have  left  him  like  this 
alone  with  her  rival,  and  his  anger  surged  against  her,  too.  But 
of  course  Lindsay  did  not  consider  the  town  seriously  as  a 
rival — the  thought  would  seem  to  her  preposterous — she  ac- 
cepted his  offering  of  it  to  her  as  something  trivial  and  foregone, 
with  less  excitement  than  she  accepted  his  engagement  ring. 
She  priced  herself  at  his  town,  and  called  it  giving  herself 
to  him. 


§6 

About  a  week  after  Ted  had  left  for  Oxford,  Monypenny 
had  a  letter  from  him,  with  the  London  post-mark.  It  was 
brought  to  him  as  he  sat  in  his  study,  examining  some  plans 
of  Lusted 's  for  a  fresh  street  in  New  Marlingate.  This  was  to 
be  a  street  of  small  "High  Art"  houses,  such  as  were  now  be- 
ginning to  crop  up  in  various  suburbs.  "High  Art"  with  Lusted 
stood  for  a  lavish  use  of  rough-cast  embedded  with  small 
pebbles.  It  was  hoped  that  these  houses  would  put  vigour  into 
the  rather  languishing  finances  of  the  Braybrooke  Farm  Estate 
Syndicate.  They  were  to  run,  bow-shaped,  from  the  London 
Road  across  to  Rye  Lane,  and  were  to  be  called  climactically 
Monypenny  Crescent.  "These  'ouses  I  look  upon  as  my  chay 
doover,"  Lusted  had  said  when  he  brought  the  plans;  "these 
'ull  strike  the  Note.  Always  the  very  latest  styles,  that's  our 
motto  in  Marlingate.  We  go  ahead  with  the  times — not  like 
some  people.  Once  it  was  areas,  now  it's  art  for  art's  sake. 
That's  why  I  think  as  it  'ud  be  only  fitting  if  this  lot  was 
named  after  you,  Mayor." 

Monypenny  worked  on  for  some  minutes,  with  Ted's  letter 
lying  beside  him  on  the  table.  Then  he  began  to  wonder  why 
he  was  writing  to  him  from  London.  He  tore  the  envelope, 


3H  TAMARISK  TOWN 

which  was  addressed  in  delicate,  artistic  handwriting,  rather 
like  his  own,  but  without  his  Victorian  slant. 

"79  Brunswick  Square, 

London,  W.  C. 
"May  23,  1891. 
"My  dear  Father, 

"You  won't  be  at  all  pleased  when  you  get  this,  but  of  course 
I  must  write  and  tell  you.  Lindsay  and  I  were  married  four 
days  ago.  We  went  to  Dartmoor  for  a  three  days'  honey- 
moon, and  then  came  here,  where  we  have  taken  rooms.  No 
one  knows  what  we  have  done  except  Lindsay's  sister  Louisa, 
whom  we  had  to  tell,  as  Lindsay  was  staying  with  her  when 
I  came  up.  Today  my  wife  is  writing  to  her  father  and  I  am 
writing  to  you.  I  hope  you  won't  be  very  much  displeased, 
but  I  can  hardly  expect  it.  You  will  probably  think  me  un- 
grateful, and  of  course  after  this  I  don't  expect  any  further 
help  from  you.  I  am  not  going  back  to  Oxford.  I'm  afraid 
you  will  never  understand  my  motives  and  will  think  the  worst 
of  us  both,  but  I  wish  I  could  make  you  realise  what  it  is  to 
love  anyone  as  I  love  Lindsay.  I'd  give  up  everything  for  her — • 
much  more  than  I  have.  Please  tell  Mother  not  to  worry.  I 
am  quite  all  right.  I  have  my  two  hundred  a  year  from  Uncle 
Vidler,  and  I  mean  to  do  some  writing  and  journalism.  You 
know  I  had  a  thing  taken  by  the  Savoy  last  year,  and  now  I'm 
starting  an  article  on  'Coptic  Architecture'  which  might  do  for 
Temple  Bar.  My  wife  feels  sure  her  father  won't  be  angry 
at  our  marriage,  though  of  course  he'll  feel  annoyed  and  un- 
comfortable if  you  don't  come  round.  I  hope  for  his  sake  as 
well  as  ours  you'll  forgive  us. 

"Ever  your  affectionate  son, 

"EDWARD  MONYPENNY." 

Monypenny's  mouth  drew  itself  into  a  gash  across  his  face. 
"If  I  don't  come  round  .  .  .  hopes  I'll  forgive  them  for 
Becket's  sake — that's  rather  good." 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN     315 

He  stood  up,  for  the  room  had  suddenly  grown  stifling. 

"But  he's  out  of  the  way.  I've  no  one  against  me  now — 
that  counts.  He's  thrown  up  the  sponge  .  .  .  he's  gone  .  .  . 
I've  cleared  the  field  .  .  .  nothing  can  stop  me  now.  .  .  ." 

He  had  reached  the  window,  and  threw  it  open.  He  was 
suffocating,  and  his  head  was  swimming,  so  that  the  red  roofs  of 
Marlingate  spun  like  a  fiery  ball  among  the  trees  of  the  Town 
Park.  Then  he  tore  at  his  collar,  and  fell  heavily  against 
the  wainscot. 


§7 

Dr.  Cooper  told  him  that  he  had  valvular  disease  of  the 
heart.  For  a  long  time  he  had  been  over-working,  over-strain- 
ing himself,  and  now  at  last  his  heart  was  going  to  teach  him 
what  old  age  meant.  He  was  only  sixty-one,  but  all  his  life 
had  been  one  long  expending  of  himself,  an  outpouring  of  him- 
self— all  the  more  passionate  because  so  quiet,  so  restrained — 
into  either  love  or  hate.  He  had  paid  the  price  of  too  ardent 
seeking,  and  was  now  to  watch  the  wild  ass's  skin  of  life  shrivel 
up  in  the  scorching  of  his  desire. 

He  would  have  been  glad  if  he  could  have  felt  that  his 
purpose  was  achieved;  but  he  could  not  believe  that  he  had 
brought  Marlingate  to  the  point  when  he  could  lift  his  hand 
from  it,  and  leave  it  to  rot  with  its  own  decays.  It  could  still 
be  saved — he  must  not  die  till  he  had  put  it  beyond  the  hope 
of  redemption.  Then  he  would  be  glad  to  die. 

For  some  weeks  after  his  fainting  fit  he  was  kept  in  the 
house,  either  in  his  bed  or  on  the  sofa.  Those  days  reminded 
him  of  his  illness  twenty-five  years  ago,  the  only  other  serious 
illness  he  had  had.  But  now  he  lay  with  a  glow  of  anticipation 
on  his  hollow  cheeks,  and  his  eyes  bright  with  the  sight  of  the 
journey's  end.  As  then,  he  gazed  out  of  the  window  at  Dead 
Man's  Town,  but  its  grimace  no  longer  appalled  him — he  had 
grown  used  to  it  in  all  these  years. 


316  TAMARISK  TOWN 

Up  and  down 

In  Dead  Man's  Town.  .  .  . 

So  he  still  went  in  dreams,  but  here  again  the  horror  had 
left  him,  for  as  his  footsteps  rang  in  the  empty  grass-grown 
streets  and  the  tamarisks  writhed  out  from  the  bursting  walls 
and  pushed  up  the  breaking  roofs,  he  was  always  comforted  by 
a  dim  sense  of  companionship,  as  of  a  presence  in  the  next 
street  .  .  .  round  the  next  corner  .  .  .  whom  someday  he 
would  meet  and  embrace  in  the  desert  of  the  town,  which  would 
then  straightway  become  the  City  of  God,  with  streets  of  pure 
gold,  filled  with  girls  and  boys.  .  .  . 

It  was  characteristic  of  his  illness  that  he  should  dream  re- 
markably. 

His  seclusion  spared  him  some  of  the  gossip  and  excitement 
that  ran  about  the  town.  Marlingate  fermented  with  the  news 
of  Ted  and  Lindsay's  marriage.  People  remembered  that  the 
bride's  mother  had  also  married  romantically ;  the  bridegroom's 
father,  on  the  other  hand,  had  made  but  a  stuffy  marriage — 
no  wonder  he  had  taken  to  his  bed  on  hearing  that  his  son  had 
stampeded  his  dear  conventions.  His  Councillors  called  on 
him  respectfully.  Among  them  came  Becket.  At  first  Mony- 
penny  refused  to  see  him,  but  on  the  next  occasion  consented, 
feeling  that  an  interview  was  inevitable  and  had  better  be  done 
with  as  soon  as  possible. 

Becket  began  by  being  conciliatory,  but  stiffened  in  the  chill 
of  Monypenny's  formal,  hostile  attitude. 

"You  must  remember  that  you  took  my  son  from  me  many 
years  ago,  when  you  turned  him  against  me  in  town  politics. 
This  is  only  the  consequence  of  your  treachery  then." 

"Treachery? — Come,  come,  Monypenny,  that's  a  strong 
word.  I  did  nothing  whatever  to  turn  the  boy  against  you 
...  on  the  contrary.  But  I  couldn't  prevent  him  seeing  what 
was  in  front  of  his  nose." 

"No.    Why  should  you?    But  don't  let's  discuss  that  aspect 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN     317 

of  the  matter  any  more.  The  point  is  that  my  son  has  married 
your  daughter  in  direct  defiance  of  my  wishes." 

"And  of  mine." 

"Of  your  knowledge,  not  of  your  wishes." 

"Hang  it  all,  Monypenny.  You're  grossly  insolent.  Are 
you  suggesting  that  my  daughter  isn't  a  good  enough  match  for 
your  son?" 

"I  suggest  nothing  of  the  kind.  My  objection  is  for  quite 
different — and  I  may  say,  quite  obvious — reasons." 

"Because  we're  opposed  on  the  Town  Committee?  I  shouldn't 
have  thought  that  could  divide  two  old  friends  like  us." 

"The  matter  goes  deeper  than  the  Town  Committee,  and 
an  alliance  between  our  families  is  now  most  undesirable." 

"Yes,  I  know  we've  split — gone  apart.  It  isn't  my  fault, 
and  I  thank  God  my  dear  Morgan  didn't  live  to  see  it.  It 
would  have  broken  her  heart — she  always  thought  a  lot  of  you. 
We're  estranged  .  .  .  and  I  thought  perhaps  this  marriage 
...  oh,  I've  a  feeling  she  would  have  blessed  it;  perhaps  she 
blesses  it  now.  Monypenny,  for  her  sake  .  .  ." 

Monypenny  did  not  answer. 

"Well,"  continued  Becket  angrily,  "since  you  persist  in  this 
unnatural  quarrel,  you  mustn't  blame  me  if  I  ignore  you  en- 
tirely and  do  my  best  for  the  young  people.  I  can't  do  much 
— all  my  money's  in  this  town,  and  if  things  get  worse  .  .  . 
my  only  comfort  is  that  if  I'm  broke,  you'll  be  broke,  too. 
That's  what  you're  riding  for,  and  you  must  see  it  now,  though 
you're  too  proud  to  own  it.  If  you  hadn't  driven  that  boy  of 
yours  out  of  Marlingate  he  might  have  helped  us  pull  things 
up  a  bit.  But  I'm  glad  he's  gone — glad  he's  out  of  it.  Yes, 
when  I  look  round  and  see  all  the  mess  and  the  wickedness, 
I'm  glad  the  children  have  escaped,  and  there's  only  us  old  men 
left  to  face  the  smash." 

"Yes,"  said  Monypenny,  "we're  all  old  men  now." 


318  TAMARISK  TOWN 

§8 

Monypenny  was  well  enough  to  attend  the  Town  Committee 
meeting  in  June.  He  would  have  attended  even  against  his 
doctor's  orders,  for  at  this  meeting  the  matter  of  Day  Excur- 
sions was  to  come  up  for  final  discussion.  Becket  had  rallied 
his  few  supporters  for  a  last  forlorn  stand.  His  anti-excursion 
campaign  had  been  a  failure — it  had  lacked  vigour,  clearness 
and  organisation  and  had  moreover  been  hustled  into  a  few 
weeks;  for  the  Progressives  were  moving  more  quickly  than 
the  Opposition  had  bargained  for — they  had  expected,  es- 
pecially since  Monypenny's  illness,  that  the  matter  would  be 
allowed  to  stand  over  till  the  following  Spring,  and  were  then 
surprised  to  find  that  the  enemy  had  taken  advantage  of  them 
and  meant  to  act  at  once.  Becket  wrote  earnestly  to  Ted, 
begging  him  to  come  and  address  the  chief  Opposition  meeting 
at  the  Concert  Hall,  but  Ted  belonged  to  Lindsay  now,  and 
Lindsay  would  not  give  him  up  to  Marlingate  even  for  a  single 
day.  They  had  been  married  scarcely  a  month,  and  he  was 
very  much  in  love.  .  .  .  "He  felt  that  it  was  unseemly  that, 
after  what  had  happened,  he  should  appear  on  a  public  platform 
to  speak  against  his  father."  .  .  .  "He  thought  it  as  well  to 
keep  clear  of  borough  politics  for  a  bit.  Of  course,  later  on, 
he  hoped  to  take  his  part  in  them  again."  By  such  phrases 
poor  old  Becket  read  that  his  chief  supporter  had  forsaken  him. 

It  happened,  however,  that  the  Committee  meeting  did  not 
open  badly  for  the  Opposition.  The  first  item  on  the  agenda 
was  a  complaint  by  Pelham,  acting  as  spokesman  for  many  of 
the  better-class  visitors  and  residents,  as  to  the  increasing  vul- 
garity of  the  Marlingate  Courier,  For  some  years  this  paper, 
under  the  editorship  of  Benbow,  had  been  more  and  more 
closely  approximating  itself  to  common  journalism,  as  distinct 
from  the  elevated  and  refined  conceptions  which  journalism 
used  to  involve  in  Marlingate.  Benbow  had  introduced  ribald 
competitions,  unsavoury  reports  of  cases  without  the  frontiers 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN    319 

of  Marlingate's  selectness,  and  even,  it  must  be  confessed, 
within  them,  and  finally  a  medical  column,  which  was  now  the 
cause  of  offence.  In  this  column,  and  in  the  "Answers  to  Cor- 
respondents" belonging  to  it,  parts  and  organs  of  the  human 
body  were  taken  out  of  the  polite  wrappings  of  periphrasis  in 
which  local  delicacy  had  kept  them  for  so  long,  and  at  once 
lightly  and  boldly  tossed  out  on  pages  that  were  read  at  every 
breakfast-table.  And  worse  had  followed.  This  week,  said  Pel- 
ham,  the  following  answer  had  appeared  to  "Anxious  Dora": 
"You  are  certainly  pregnant."  Was  this,  he  asked  the  Town 
Committee,  as  husbands  and  fathers,  to  be  allowed  to  go  on? 

"When  I  see  this  assembly  here,"  continued  old  Pelham, 
"when  I  see  our  Mayor  in  his  chain  of  office,  when  I  see  our 
worthy  Aldermen  and  Councillors  gathered  together  in  this 
chamber  of  so  many  hallowed  associations,  I  am  reminded  of 
another,  earlier  assembly,  when  we  united  to  remove  what  we 
then  considered  a  stain  on  the  selectness  and  refinement  of  our 
town.  I  ask  you,  shall  those  ears  which  were  chastely  outraged 
at  the  naming  of  our  central  brook — then  offensive  to  the 
genteel  as  the  Gut's  Mouth,  now  as  the  Marlin  graceful  even 
on  the  lips  of  our  juveniles — I  ask  you,  shall  those  chaste  ears 
tolerate  the  coarseness  I  have  just  read,  and  allow  our  local 
journal,  the  leader  of  Marlingate,  to — to — to — er — er — er " 

Old  Pelham  now  often  found  it  too  tiring  to  stand  till  he 
had  fought  a  refractory  sentence  to  a  finish,  so  supplemented 
the  inadequacy  of  speech  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  and  sat 
down.  Benbow  immediately  stood  up  and  vindicated  himself 
in  a  speech  in  which  the  words  "plain,"  "direct,"  "hypocrisy," 
"squeamishness,"  "medical  science,"  and  the  text  "to  the  pure 
all  things  are  pure"  were  repeated  very  often.  Lewnes  sup- 
ported him  and  said  that  Marlingate  must  move  with  the  times. 
Becket  then  lifted  the  Obstructionist  voice  and  expressed  his 
horror  that  such  words  as  those  quoted  by  Pelham  should  ever 
be  read  by  pure,  modest  women.  It  was  all  part  of  the  general 
deterioration  of  the  town,  a  side-issue  of  the  Corporation's  pol- 


320  TAMARISK  TOWN 

icy  of  cheapness — he  hoped  that  they  realised  now  where  "Pro- 
gress" was  leading  them. 

Monypenny  enquired  who  was  this  "Medico"  who  answered 
correspondents  so  unbecomingly.  The  guilt  was  finally  fixed 
on  a  chemist  in  Station  Road.  Then  followed  a  hoarse  and 
violent  debate  which  showed  signs  of  raging  on  till  the  end  of 
the  meeting  and  shelving  more  important  business.  Mony- 
penny at  last  succeeded  in  stopping  it  by  moving  the  appoint- 
ment of  a  sub-committee  to  investigate  the  matter  and  cross- 
examine  Medico.  The  question  of  Day  Excursions  was  then 
brought  forward  by  Benbow. 

Benbow  had  made  himself  unpopular  by  his  share  in  the 
Courier  scandal.  Marlingate,  whether  Progressive  or  Obstruc- 
tionist, was  a  loyal  worshipper  of  British  morality,  and  it  was 
soon  obvious  to  Monypenny  that  the  spirit  of  the  meeting  was 
hostile  to  this  purveyor  of  physiological  indelicacies.  How- 
ever, in  spite  of  the  feeling  against  him,  Benbow  spoke  vigor- 
ously, and  sketched  with  clearness  and  persuasion  the  plans 
of  the  Town  Council  in  combination  with  the  South  Eastern 
Railway.  During  the  Summer  whole-day  and  half-day  excur- 
sions would  be  run  from  London,  Chatham,  Erith,  and  other 
large  industrial  centres.  The  people  thus  brought  would  be  the 
well-to-do  class  of  artisan,  who  would  probably  have  plenty  of 
money  to  spend  in  the  town.  Of  course  there  would  be  due 
precautions  against  rowdyism.  .  .  . 

"Such  as  the  Pier  Tolls,"  interrupted  Cooper,  who  had  hith- 
erto been  considered  pretty  safe  as  a  Progressive,  and  an  ironic 
laugh  went  round  the  meeting. 

"Why  were  the  Pier  Tolls  ever  abolished?"  asked  Robert 
Pelham.  "Some  of  the  people  landing  from  the  Margaret  Belle 
should  never  have  been  allowed  to  get  through." 

"The  Pier  Tolls  wouldn't  have  kept  them  out,"  said  Becket; 
"it's  the  fundamental  idea  of  excursions  that's  wrong  for  this 
town." 

"Hear!  hear!"  said  one  or  two  voices. 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN    321 

"Rot!"  cried  Lewnes.  "If  nobody's  allowed  to  come  into  the 
blooming  place,  how  are  we  poor  tradesmen  going  to  make 
money?" 

"It's  a  bad  way  to  make  money — throw  out  the  sovereigns 
and  fill  up  with  farthings,"  said  Breeds  unexpectedly. 

Monypenny  saw  that  the  case  was  more  dangerous  than  he 
had  anticipated.  He  must  take  it  in  hand  at  once.  He  stood 
up,  and  according  to  the  long  habit  of  years  silence  fell  upon 
the  meeting. 

"I  think  you've  misconceived  the  plan,"  he  said,  and  with  a 
nod  to  Benbow  took  up  his  tale.  Thank  heaven,  he  still  had 
his  power  over  these  Aldermen  and  Councillors  of  Marlingate! 
His  voice  was  still  the  voice  of  the  town,  and  as  he  spoke  he 
could  see  the  Committee's  expression  change.  It  was  largely  a 
case  of  personal  power,  for  he  did  not  fumble  issues  in  his 
speech.  But  that  terse,  unemotional  voice  had  a  curious  infec- 
tion of  enterprise.  When  he  sat  down  he  knew  that  once  more 
the  spirit  of  the  assembly  had  changed,  that  once  more  it  was 
in  bondage  to  his  brain  and  will. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  Becket  stood  up  to  do 
his  best  for  the  Opposition.  Monypenny  scarcely  heard  him, 
for  all  the  time  he  was  thinking  of  what  might  have  happened 
if  the  man  to  oppose  him  had  been  his  son.  Ted,  alone  in 
Marlingate,  could  have  undone  his  father's  work,  for  he  alone 
had  his  power  of  words,  more  diffused  yet  more  ardent.  Ted's 
words  could  have  burnt  up  his  father's  words.  But  he  was 
far  away,  and  here  stood  poor  old  Becket,  stuttering  platitudes. 

The  voting  came  and  was  close  enough.  Breeds  and  the  two 
Pelhams  supported  Becket,  but  Cooper  had  been  converted,  and 
he,  with  Lusted,  Lewnes,  Smith  (a  new  man),  Benbow,  and 
Monypenny  carried  the  motion  through. 


322  TAMARISK  TOWN 


About  a  week  later,  Fanny  had  a  letter  from  Ted.  His  letter 
to  Monypenny  had  not  been  answered,  and  now  he  wrote  to 
his  mother,  half-pleadingly,  half-reproachfully.  He  told  her 
that  his  father-in-law  had  not  treated  him  as  harshly  as  his 
father.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  been  most  generous,  and  was 
paying  his  premium  to  the  architectural  firm  of  Britton  &  Giles, 
at  whose  office  in  Holborn  he  was  to  start  work  next  week. 
This  was  extraordinarily  generous  of  the  old  man,  as  of  course 
he  was  not  nearly  so  well  off  as  he  used  to  be.  He  was  also 
continuing  Lindsay's  dress  allowance  of  fifty  pounds  a  year, 
which,  small  as  it  was,  made  an  encouraging  difference  to  their 
income.  He  said  he  was  sorry  he  could  not  do  more  for  them, 
but  of  course  he  was  in  difficulties  himself.  .  .  . 

The  implied  reproach  was  not  only  in  Ted's  words  but  in 
Fanny's  voice  as  she  read  them  aloud  to  her  husband  at  the 
breakfast-table.  He  sat  grimly  opposite  her,  applying  Glad- 
stone's rule  of  mastication  to  his  bacon  and  eggs.  When  she 
had  finished  reading  he  picked  up  his  paper  without  a  word. 

"Oh,  Edward"  .  .  .  she  hesitated — "aren't  you  going  to  say 
anything?  Aren't  you  going  to  do  anything  for  them?" 

"Why  should  I  do  anything?" 

Fanny  nearly  faded  into  silence,  but  her  love  for  her  son 
gave  her  still  a  little  substance. 

"Well,  he's  our  boy  .  .  .  and  it  doesn't  look  well,  Becket 
helping  him  and  us  doing  nothing." 

"I  see  no  reason  why  I  should  help  him  in  his  disobedience 
and  defiance  of  my  wishes." 

"But  if  Becket  helps  him  .  .  ." 

"Becket  is  a  fool,  and  as  far  as  I  know  he  did  not  defy 
Becket;  merely  deceived  him.  Besides,  I  am  even  less  able  to 
help  him  than  Becket  is — as  you  know,  there's  a  mortgage  on 
the  entire  Gun  Garden  Estate,  which  has  to  be  paid  off  in  three 
years'  time.  It  would  grossly  incommode  me  to  make  even  the 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN    323 

smallest  allowance,  and  I  don't  see  why  I  should  put  myself  out 
for  the  sake  of  two  obstinate  young  people  who  do  not  consider 
me  in  the  least.  Let  them  learn  to  live  on  two  hundred  and 
fifty  a  year — many  a  couple  has  set  up  on  less." 

He  turned  furiously  to  his  paper,  and  Fanny  subsided.  His 
face  was  white  and  his  hand  shook,  and  she  feared  that  he  might 
have  another  "attack."  But  his  anger  was  not  chiefly  for  Ted 
and  Lindsay,  as  she  thought.  It  was  for  Marlingate.  He  saw 
that  once  again  the  town  had  got  the  better  of  him,  and  this 
time  it  had  robbed  him  of  his  son.  Even  dying  it  could  slay, 
and  in  its  last  struggle  it  had  torn  from  him  the  love  which 
might  one  day  have  been  his  consolation  for  the  love  he  had 
lost  through  its  earlier  betrayal.  In  spite  of  his  half- jealous, 
half-contemptuous  attitude  towards  Ted,  he  longed  to  forgive 
him,  to  have  him  back,  to  give  him  all  the  help  and  sympathy 
he  wanted.  But  he  must  deny  himself — stifle  almost  the  only 
human  emotion  he  had  left.  For  if  he  had  Ted  back,  Ted  could 
still  save  Marlingate.  He  must  keep  him  away  till  its  last  hope 
of  restoration  was  gone,  and  he  was  glad  that  the  demands  of 
office  life,  with  the  addition  of  poverty  and  disgrace,  would 
keep  the  young  man  out  of  the  town  probably  for  some  years  to 
come.  But  it  was  hard  to  have  to  go  on  paying  up  to  the 
end  like  this. 

§  10 

The  Day  Excursions  measure  had  been  passed  through  the 
Town  Committee  too  late  to  come  into  operation  before  August. 
After  the  Town  Committee  had  approved  it,  it  had  to  pass  an 
"open"  meeting  of  the  Town  Council.  But  this  was  an  easy 
matter.  The  Councillors  and  chief  burgesses  were  warmly  in 
favour  of  "popularising"  the  town.  Those  signs  of  decay  which 
they  were  able  to  see,  they  interpreted,  under  Monypenny's  di- 
rection, as  tokens  of  a  general  need  for  "waking  up."  The  Op- 
position had  crumpled  up  altogether.  After  his  failure  in  the 
Town  Committee,  Becket  had  lost  heart  and  wiped  the  dust  of 


324  TAMARISK  TOWN 

Marlingate  off  his  respectable  boots.  He  suddenly  decided  to 
let  his  house  on  the  Coney  Banks  for  the  summer — which  he 
did  with  great  difficulty  and  at  a  very  low  rent  to  a  family  of 
Shadwell  Jews  that  he  always  felt  it  on  his  conscience  to  have 
admitted  to  the  town — and  retired  to  London,  heavy-hearted 
and  disappointed,  with  a  few  revengeful  hopes  centred  on  the 
year  1895,  when  the  Gun  Garden  mortgage  expired.  Without 
him  Pelham  was  merely  voluble  and  bewildered,  and  in  the 
Town  Council  he  and  Robert  both  voted  for  the  Excursions 
which  they  had  voted  and  spoken  against  in  the  Committee. 
This  left  only  Breeds  to  vote  against  them,  which  he  was  much 
too  scared  to  do.  So  the  measure  was  passed  unanimously. 

Monypenny's  feelings  on  Becket's  retirement  were  strangely 
mixed.  Of  course  it  was  opportune,  but  Becket  alone  had  never 
been  formidable,  and  now  he  was  gone  Monypenny  realised 
that  preposterous  as  it  might  seem,  his  presence  in  the  town 
had  always  given  him  a  sort  of  comfort.  In  spite  of  their  dif- 
ferences, reinforced  on  his  side  by  a  scarcely-veiled  contempt,  he 
had  always  felt  with  this  old  man  the  supreme  link  of  a  memory 
shared.  No  one  else  in  Marlingate  remembered  Morgan  as 
he  and  Becket  remembered  her,  though  Becket's  memories  of 
her  sometimes  aroused  his  derision,  and  sometimes  his  jealousy. 
Now  that  the  old  man  was  gone  it  was  almost  as  if  he  had 
taken  something  of  Morgan  with  him — not  her  urging  spirit,  for 
that  had  always  been  Monypenny's,  but  stray  fragments  and 
scents,  that  small  yet  definite  part  of  her  which  had  belonged  to 
the  house  on  the  Coney  Banks  and  the  drawing-room  of  the 
plush-framed  mirrors.  .  .  . 

But  if  Becket's  departure  was  not  a  relief  it  was  at  least 
a  favourable  sign.  It  showed  him  that  the  Opposition  was 
routed  and  Marlingate  had  lost  its  last  defence.  It  was  beaten 
now,  and  all  that  remained  for  him  to  do  was  to  consolidate 
and  secure  his  victory.  Indeed,  the  Day  Excursions  seemed  to 
be  doing  their  work  even  quicker  than  he  had  hoped.  Every 
week  of  that  August  and  September  rowdy  train-loads  of  holi- 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN    325 

day-makers  belched  out  of  Station  Road  and  denied  the  sanc- 
tuaries of  the  Marine  Parade  and  the  Town  Park.  Generally 
they  behaved  decently,  and  the  trail  of  their  presence  was 
nothing  worse  than  orange-peel  and  their  shrill,  happy  voices. 
But  sometimes  there  were  scandals,  which  borough  gossip  duly 
magnified.  Besides,  shrieks  and  orange-peel  were  enough  in 
themselves  to  frighten  the  surviving  elect  among  the  visitors. 
One  or  two  unofficial  protests  were  made  to  the  Town  Com- 
mittee, and  the  Council  did  their  best  to  suppress  rowdyism, 
but  felt  that  it  would  be  neither  diplomatic  nor  generous  to  close 
the  town  to  trippers.  The  visitors  had  long  ago  been  filleted 
of  their  powerful  Hurdicott  backbone,  and  since  Becket's  re- 
tirement had  been  unrepresented  on  the  Town  Council.  There- 
fore they  had  small  means  of  making  their  indignation  felt,  ex- 
cept by  packing  up  and  going  away,  which  they  did  in  large 
numbers. 

But,  as  the  town  was  as  full  as  ever,  their  departure  did  not 
cause  any  serious  alarm.  That  Summer  was  spoken  of  as  a 
record  season,  and  it  a  little  surprised  the  borough  fathers 
that  none  of  the  Corporation  funds  seemed  to  have  benefited 
from  the  crowds — the  Aquarium,  the  Pier,  and  the  Marine 
Hotel  were  still  going  down  as  fast  as  ever,  though  the  latter 
had  lowered  its  prices  and  took  people  in  at  what  were  prac- 
tically boarding-house  terms. 

It  was  decided  to  retrench  a  little  during  the  coming  Winter, 
and  at  its  September  meeting  the  Town  Council  considered 
various  plans  for  the  turning  of  the  new  Summer  boom  to  its 
financial  advantage.  Lewnes  aired  more  openly  than  he  had 
ever  dared  before,  his  long-standing  grievance  against  the 
Winter  season.  What  was  the  use,  he  urged,  of  wasting  the 
Corporation's  money  on  Winter  attractions?  People  had  given 
up  coming  to  Marlingate  in  the  Winter — fashions  changed,  and 
it  was  now  the  fashion  to  go  to  the  South  of  France,  and  to 
Switzerland 

"And  Bulverhythe,"  suggested  someone. 


326  TAMARISK  TOWN 

Bulverhythe  didn't  matter — it  was  only  a  village,  where  a 
few  cranks  went  every  Winter  for  their  health. 

"The  Hurdicotts  go  there,"  persisted  the  voice,  which  was 
Robert  Pelham's.  No  one  even  knew  which  side  the  Pelhams 
would  take  at  any  meeting.  They  apparently  suffered  from 
chronic  bewilderment. 

Lewnes  pointed  out  that  the  Hurdicotts  were  stuffy  and  su- 
perior. They  wanted  a  town  built  for  themselves.  Now  this 
Summer  had  shown  them  that  people  like  that  were  not  the 
people  to  cater  for.  He,  personally,  would  never  forget  that 
Summer — the  happy  crowds  that  had  filled  the  town  and  made 
it  look  really  alive  and  up-to-date.  The  rather  uncertain  state 
of  local  finances  was  due  to  the  fact  that  they  had  not  adopted 
this  go-ahead  programme  long  ago.  The  Corporation  must  now 
see  the  folly  of  sacrificing  the  Summer  to  the  Winter  season. 
They  must  advertise,  advertise,  advertise,  and  get  people  down, 
and  give  them  something  to  do  when  they  came.  He,  no  more 
than  anyone  else,  liked  to  see  people  sleeping  on  the  beach  or  on 
benches  on  the  Parade.  Now  if  you  had  something  for  them  to 
do  or  to  watch — Niggers  at  the  Aquarium,  or  a  Confetti  Car- 
nival on  the  Pier  .  .  . 

"Where's  the  money  to  come  from?"  asked  Robert  Pelham 
querulously. 

"Well,  if  we  didn't  waste  six  or  seven  hundred  pounds  on  a 
Winter  Orchestra  that  nobody  cares  to  listen  to  .  .  ." 

Then  old  Pelham  jerked  totteringly  to  his  feet. 

"I  protest!"  he  cried  in  his  cracked  old  voice.  But  patience 
was  short  that  afternoon.  No  one  was  going  to  listen  while 
the  oldest  Alderman  unfurled  his  long,  flapping  arguments. 
There  were  one  or  two  new  young  men  on  the  Town  Council, 
in  the  place  of  those  who  had  resigned.  These  did  not  know 
the  Marlingate  tradition  of  respect  for  the  borough's  rhetorician 
— and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  Pelham  was  howled  down. 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN    327 


Away  in  London,  among  the  sooty  Georgics  of  Brunswick 
Square,  Ted  Monypenny  gathered  up  rather  fumblingly  the 
threads  of  a  new  life.  He  had  now  been  married  four  months, 
and  was  beginning  to  lose  the  first  terrified  wonder  of  ex- 
perience. The  first  weeks  of  his  marriage  had  almost  terrified 
him  with  the  force  of  their  emotion.  All  his  being  seemed  to  be 
gathered  up  into  one  close  knot  of  feeling.  He  had  never  real- 
ised that  it  was  possible  for  the  heart  of  man  to  feel  and  hold  so 
much.  He  and  Lindsay  had  met,  not  as  man  and  woman,  but 
as  two  clouds  of  passion,  melting  into  each  other.  When  he 
was  away  from  her,  in  the  streets  or  at  Britton  &  Giles's  office, 
her  mirage  dominated  him,  scents  of  her  rose  out  of  musty 
books,  the  sound  of  her  light  feet  came  in  the  tread  of  boys, 
her  eyes  looked  at  him  out  of  other  women's  faces.  When  he 
was  with  her,  she  was  never  close  enough  ;  even  when  he  held 
her  in  his  arms,  she  was  not  close  enough  —  she  would  never  be 
close  enough  till  her  being  was  his  being  .  .  .  possession  was 
like  the  mountain  top,  always  one  crest  beyond. 

Now  his  feelings  were  calmer,  and  he  felt  relieved,  though 
their  calmness  came  more  of  their  falling  back  tired  than  of 
their  having  fulfilled  their  quest.  As  for  Lindsay,  she  had 
always  been  calm  —  cool  and  smooth.  That  flying,  slanting  look 
never  came  into  her  eyes  in  Brunswick  Square.  He  now  saw 
how  like  Becket  she  was  in  many  ways. 

They  lived  simply,  but  not  uncomfortably.  Ted's  efforts  at 
journalism  were  so  far  a  failure,  but  their  tiny  income  was 
enough  for  necessities,  and  now,  thanks  to  his  father-in-law's 
generosity,  he  had  some  prospects  of  a  career.  Britton  &  Giles 
were  not  in  a  particularly  flourishing  way  of  business  —  he  could 
not  have  paid  the  large  premium  demanded  by  a  better-class 
firm  —  but  they  were  sound,  and  in  their  office  Ted  learned  to 
keep  and  check  accounts,  write  reports,  make  inspections,  and 
the  rest  of  architectural  routine. 


328  TAMARISK  TOWN 

Early  in  August  Becket  came  up  to  London.  He  was  tired 
and  depressed,  and  obviously  failing.  Ted  and  Lindsay  would 
sometimes  go  to  see  him  in  the  evenings,  and  smoke  and  sew 
while  Becket  prosed,  telling  them  of  the  early  days  of  his  mar- 
riage, though  they  noticed  with  some  concern  that  his  two  mar- 
riages had  fused  together  in  his  mind,  and  his  poor  Emma 
changed  places  indiscriminately  with  his  poor  Morgan  as  the 
heroine  of  those  fresh  green  days  when  they  walked  under  the 
trees  at  Leamington  Spa  and  her  little  sunshade  was  hardly 
enough  to  hide  her  chin  from  the  sun. 

The  shock  of  his  final  rupture  with  Marlingate  and  with 
Monypenny  had  much  affected  him.  He  missed  the  old  ways  of 
the  house  on  the  Coney  Banks,  and  he  was  worried  about  his 
finances.  He  had  put  large  sums  of  money  into  local  invest- 
ments— the  Pier,  the  Aquarium,  the  Marine  Hotel,  none  of 
which  was  paying  dividends  now.  It  is  true  that  Monypenny 
paid  regularly  his  interest  on  the  mortgage,  but  neither  that  nor 
the  prospect  of  foreclosure  gave  him  any  real  satisfaction.  The 
Gun  Garden  Estate  had  deteriorated  in  value  like  everything 
else  in  the  town,  and  he  had  no  wish  either  to  have  it  on  tils 
hands  or  to  sell  it  at  the  sum  it  was  likely  to  fetch  in  the  open 
market. 

Ted  was  depressed  by  the  news  of  Marlingate.  He  felt  that 
his  father-in-law  had  put  up  a  poor  fight.  Yet  he  could  not 
blame  him  without  blaming  himself.  He  was  the  real  defaulter, 
not  poor  old  Becket — over  eighty,  muddled,  impoverished,  dis- 
appointed, deserted.  Ted  was  busy  now  with  competition  work, 
designing  a  market-hall  for  Middenchester.  But  as  he  worked 
at  this  in  his  evening  freedom,  or  occasionally  during  spare  time 
at  the  office,  he  would  sometimes  find  a  vision  coming  between 
him  and  his  elevations,  the  ghosts  of  dream-terraces  at  the  back 
of  Marlingate — Monypenny  Crescent  as  he  and  not  Lusted 
would  have  built  it,  arching  like  a  rainbow  across  the  north  of 
the  town,  and  receiving  into  its  arc  the  rays  that  streamed  from 
the  central  sun  of  Pelham  Square.  So  real  was  this  mirage 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN     329 

that  sometimes  he  almost  felt  as  if  the  dream  must  have  some 
substance  in  the  town,  and  that  if  he  were  to  return  he  would 
see  the  goodly  frontages  of  his  own  streets — instead  of  the 
mixed  brick  and  stucco  of  New  Marlingate,  representing  the 
schism  of  Lusted  and  Figg,  the  paltry  scrannel  of  Vidler  Road 
— with  its  ridiculous  carriage-drives  to  mean  front  doors — or 
Lusted  Avenue,  drab  and  semi-detached,  or  Benbow  Terrace 
ending  in  scaffold  poles  and  a  tin  meeting-house. 

He  sometimes  upbraided  himself  for  these  moments.  They 
were  a  disloyalty  to  Lindsay.  Much  as  he  loved  Marlingate 
he  could  not  regret  that  he  had  refused  to  pay  its  price.  What 
was  any  town  of  streets,  even  when  vitalised  by  an  artistic  and 
creative  impulse,  compared  to  a  woman  of  flesh  and  blood,  and 
the  love  of  her  which  is  Art  Itself  and  Creation?  If  he  had 
chosen  Marlingate  instead  of  Lindsay  he  would  have  renounced 
the  spiritual  for  the  material,  heaven  for  earth,  love  for  dust. 
So  he  told  himself  .  .  .  yet  his  dream  still  rose  continually 
between  him  and  his  daily  bread. 

§12 

Spring  came  to  colour  and  ripen  even  the  Bloomsbury 
Squares.  In  the  Square  gardens  the  thick  rose  and  white 
tapers  of  the  horse-chestnut  teased  young  Monypenny  with  a 
fragmentary  June — a  June  that  came  only  in  spasmodic  mo- 
ments, in  a  scattering  of  blossoms,  in  a  whorl  of  hot,  golden 
dust  in  a  drip  of  laburnum  through  some  chink  between  the 
houses,  in  the  stuffy  scent  of  privet  in  the  sun.  And  it  came 
most  mockingly  and  fragmentarily  of  all  in  the  painting  of  the 
houses,  in  the  ladders  and  the  scaffoldings  that  were  put  up,  in 
the  smell  of  the  new  paint  and  its  wet  gleam.  For  Ted  remem- 
bered the  yearly  painting  of  Marlingate — chiefly  of  the  white, 
shining  houses  on  the  Marine  Parade,  but  also  of  the  ancient 
woodwork  in  the  High  Street  and  Fish  Street,  and  on  the  Coney 
Banks,  where  many  a  tall  black  house  was  given  its  new  coat 


330  TAMARISK  TOWN 

of  tar.  Of  late  this  vernal  rite  had  not  been  so  devoutly  cele- 
brated— houses  on  the  Marine  Parade  were  allowed  to  turn 
grey  before  white  paint  restored  them,  which  gave  a  patched 
and  streaky  look  to  the  line;  and  on  the  Coney  Banks  the  big 
tar  blisters  swelled  and  even  burst  before  they  were  healed  with 
a  new  wash;  but  there  was  still  plenty  of  house-painting  done 
here  and  there,  and  Ted  always  connected  Spring  with  the 
painters'  men  in  their  white  aprons,  carrying  their  splashed 
boards  and  buckets,  and  the  rich,  sickening  smell  of  the  wet 
paint,  and  the  chalk  warning  scrawled  on  step  or  pavement.  It 
seemed  almost  an  insult  that  Brunswick  Square,  or  Torrington 
Square,  or  Russell  Square,  or  Bedford  Square,  or  Montague 
Square  should  paint  itself  and  gleam  and  smell  like  Mar- 
lingate. 

In  the  evening  Brunswick  Square  would  sometimes  insult  him 
further,  for  it  would  drape  itself  in  a  dusky  stillness,  in  which 
its  Georgian  outlines  stood  grey  against  the  pink,  blurred  sky, 
and  then  it  would  put  on  a  queer,  haunting  look  of  Marlingate, 
with  bow  windows  and  columned  doorways  and  crinkled  roofs. 
He  could  hardly  bear  it  when  it  looked  like  that,  and  the  scent 
of  its  horse-chestnut  trees  came  to  him  like  the  scent  of  the 
Town  Park,  and  the  scent  of  its  new-painted  houses  like  the 
scent  of  the  Marine  Parade  when  the  Summer  season  was  at 
hand.  .  .  . 

He  found  himself  pathetically  hungry  for  news.  This  came 
to  him  either  through  Becket's  letters — his  fragmentary  cor- 
respondence with  Pelham  and  Breeds — or  from  Fanny,  who 
occasionally  shook  into  her  letters  a  few  stray  crumbs  of 
borough  news,  as  one  who  has  dined  well,  on  rising  shakes  care- 
lessly the  crumbs  from  his  lap,  not  realising  what  these  may 
mean  to  the  dogs  who  cannot  eat  the  children's  bread. 

"We  had  great  doing  yesterday,"  she  wrote  in  June;  "it  was 
the  first  big  excursion  of  this  season,  and  the  town  was  full  of 
people,  from  Erith  I  think  they  came.  They  arrived  about 
eleven,  all  with  buttonholes,  and  walked  up  and  down  the 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN     331 

Parade  singing.  Your  father  took  me  out  to  see  them.  Some 
of  the  visitors  were  shocked,  and  would  not  stay  on  the  Parade 
while  they  were  there.  Then  they  all  went  and  had  dinner. 
Some  were  rich  enough  to  go  to  the  Marine  Hotel,  and  the 
others  went  to  the  shops — Sinden's  was  quite  full.  They  ate  up 
nearly  everything  there  was  in  the  town.  After  dinner  some 
of  them  got  drunk,  and  they  danced  in  the  High  Street,  and 
some  went  to  sleep  on  the  beach  and  on  the  benches  on  the 
Parade.  I  believe  a  good  many  of  the  visitors  do  not  like  it, 
but  they  say  the  town  has  never  been  so  full  as  it  is  this  year." 

The  greater  part  of  her  letter  was  about  Monypenny.  He 
was  not  well  and  would  not  take  care  of  himself.  He 
had  had  another  sharp  attack  of  fainting,  pain  and  breathless- 
ness,  and  yet  he  had  insisted  on  going  to  a  Town  Council  meet- 
ing within  four  days.  He  was  very  busy  now  about  a  Watch 
Committee  he  and  Pelham  were  setting  up — the  idea  had 
been  started  by  something  shocking  which  had  appeared  in  the 
Marlingate  Courier. 

Ted  crumpled  the  letter,  and  tossed  the  ball  into  the  fender. 
He  and  Lindsay  were  sitting  at  their  breakfast. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  asked  Lindsay  smoothly  from  behind  the 
coffee  pot.  Ted  felt  a  sudden  spasm  of  annoyance  at  the  sight 
of  her  sleek  hair,  so  carefully  brushed,  with  the  neat  fringe 
upon  her  forehead.  To  match  his  mood  she  should  have  been 
dishevelled,  and  in  protest  and  example  he  rubbed  his  own 
hair  violently  the  wrong  way. 

"What's  the  matter,  dear?"  she  asked,  if  anything  a  little 
more  evenly. 

"Marlingate — I'm  worried  about  it." 

"Of  course — so  are  we  all." 

"You're  not." 

Lindsay  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"Of  course  I  am." 

"Damn  it! — I  tell  you  you're  not." 

Lindsay  dropped  her  napkin  in  surprise,  and  stared  at  him. 


332  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"Ted!" 

"I'm  sorry — but  really  this  sort  of  thing  makes  me  desperate. 
You  don't  seem  to  mind — I  believe  you  enjoy  this  dreadful 
life." 

"This  dreadful  life?— What  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  is  it  a  life  for  a  man?  ...  cut  off  from  the  work 
that  he  ought  to  be  doing,  and  which  is  being  smashed  to  pieces 
while  he's  away." 

"Ted,  you  can't  mean  to  say  you're  .  .  .  sorry?" 

All  her  calmness  was  gone  now.  She  sprang  to  her  feet, 
and  went  up  to  him,  drawing  his  rough  head  to  her  shoulder. 

"Of  course  I  don't  mean  that,"  he  murmured,  contrite.  "I 
shall  always  be  glad  I  married  you — always  glad.  But  I'm 
sorry  for  other  things.  ...  I  can't  help  it." 

Lindsay  did  not  answer,  and  he  felt  her  warm  mouth  seeking 
his  own.  He  turned  his  head  and  gave  her  his  lips,  but  all  the 
time  that  they  clung  together  in  that  long  kiss,  which  had  ended 
and  would  end  so  many  arguments,  he  was  conscious  of  a 
barrier  between  them,  the  same  barrier  that  was  between  him 
and  his  work — the  streets  of  a  dream,  the  breadth  of  Mar- 
lingate. 

§13 

August  lay  in  a  golden  haze  over  the  sea,  in  gold  dust  on 
the  streets,  in  golden  clumps  of  sunflowers  and  dahlias  in  the 
gardens.  The  scent  of  hops  and  corn  came  townwards  from  the 
weald,  sometimes  carried  in  the  carts  that  bore  the  queer  names 
of  wealden  farms  into  Marlingate.  Monypenny,  walking  on 
the  shady  side  of  the  street,  and  using  his  stick  less  ornamen- 
tally than  of  old,  found  the  town  air  stifling,  and  sometimes 
snuffed  impatiently  at  the  country  smells.  He  caught  him- 
self in  useless  longings  to  follow  these  carts,  cut  through  the 
Warrior's  Gate,  through  the  dingy  suburban  spread  of  New 
Marlingate,  to  the  "Odiam"  or  "Worge"  or  "Moon's  Green"  or 
"Spell  Land,"  lettered  on  them.  But  the  days  were  gone  when 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN    333 

he  could  have  walked  so  far,  and  when  he  could  have  walked 
he  had  not  cared  to  go.  He  wondered  whether,  if  he  had  lived 
in  the  country,  his  life  would  have  been  different — whether,  for 
instance,  it  would  have  been  happy.  Surely  in  the  country 
there  were  no  hungry  ambitions  to  swallow  up  a  man's  soul. 
Yet  he  could  not  help  feeling  that  even  from  Odiam  or  Spell 
Land  he  would  at  last  have  drifted  to  Marlingate,  for  without 
Marlingate  he  would  not  have  been  Monypenny.  Marlingate 
was  part  of  Monypenny,  no  matter  how  he  fought  it  and  hated 
it — it  was  part  of  his  being,  and  he  was  part  of  its  dust. 

His  feelings  toward  it  were  beginning  to  be  less  hostile,  as  a 
man  relents  towards  a  beaten  enemy.  Marlingate  had  betrayed 
him  both  as  lover  and  as  father — he  had  built  it  at  the  price 
of  the  woman  he  loved,  he  had  destroyed  it  at  the  price  of  his 
only  son.  But  he  had  won  the  battle — he  lived  and  it  was  dead. 
Tamarisk  Town  which  had  gleamed  like  a  crystal  bowl  beside 
the  sea  was  now  a  dishonoured  vessel,  the  wash-pot  of  trippers. 
He  had  grimed  it  and  cracked  it  and  thrown  it  into  the  gutter, 
where  it  would  soon  be  trodden  to  pieces. 

His  chief  hope  for  the  future  was  in  Lewnes.  He  trusted 
Lewnes  to  carry  on  his  work  after  he  was  gone.  It  made  him 
smile  ironically  to  think  that  he  should  ever  live  to  thank 
heaven  for  Lewnes — he  who  had  always  despised  the  Alderman. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  he  despised  him  still.  Lewnes  was  deputy- 
Mayor  that  year. 

"What  we  want  in  this  town,"  said  he,  "is  something  to 
make  people  sit  up.  They're  a  sleepy  lot  for  the  most  part,  the 
High  Street  people.  I'm  glad  we're  getting  some  new  blood  on 
the  Council  with  that  young  Ellam.  Now  we  ought  to  go  ahead. 
That's  what  pays — to  go  ahead,  and  move  with  the  times.  I've 
always  said  that,  'aven't  I?" 

"You  have,  indeed." 

"Now,  come,  Mayor,  I  know  you  ain't  the  one  for  throwing 
bookays,  but  tell  me,  just  as  an  old  friend — boys  together,  we 
were — haven't  I  been  your  right-hand  man  on  the  Council  all 


334  TAMARISK  TOWN 

the  way  through?  I've  helped  you  to  go  ahead  when  everyone 
else  was  for  hanging  back — whether  it  was  building  the  Parade 
or  asking  Sophia  of  Worcester  down,  or  having  a  Pier  or  Day 
Excursions  or  anythink.  It's  always  been  me  that  have  sup- 
ported you  and  stuck  by  you  against  Pelham  or  Becket  or  any 
such-like  old  pudding-heads." 

Monypenny  made  him  a  courtly  little  bow. 

"I  can  certainly  say,  my  dear  Lewnes,  that  I  could  never 
have  made  this  town  what  it  is  if  it  had  not  been  for  you — 
and  I  look  to  you  to  carry  on  my  work  after  I  am  gone." 

"Oh,  don't  talk  of  going,  Mayor.  You're  not  going  to  leave 
us  now  for  a  long  while  yet.  Quite  a  boy,  you  are — only 
sixty-two.  But  if  ever  you  got  tired  of  being  Mayor — for  every- 
one knows  you're  Mayor  of  this  town  as  long  as  you  choose  to 
be — and  thought  you'd  like  a  bit  of  a  rest  in  the  evening  of 
life,  well  then  .  .  ."  and  he  blew  himself  out. 

"When  I  retire  I  shall  certainly  express  a  wish  that  you  may 
succeed  me." 

"That's  kind  of  you,  Mayor — that's  friendly.  I  can  promise 
to  carry  on  the  work  on  your  lines.  After  all,  you've  almost 
done  the  job.  It  makes  my  'eart  proud  to  see  Marlingate  this 
Summer — so  full  you  could  hardly  squeeze  an  extra  child  into 
it.  At  one  time  I  thought  we  were  going  to  have  things  spoiled 
for  us  by  Becket,  and — you'll  pardon  me  saying  so — your  young 
man.  But  now  Becket's  gone  home  sulky,  and  your  young 
gentleman's  found  something  better  to  do.  Of  course  I'm  sorry 
that's  happened,  but  boys  will  be  boys,  and  it  ain't  a  bad 
thing  that  he  should  go  away  just  when  he  was  beginning  to 
make  mischief.  He'll  come  back,  never  fear,  in  a  more  sensible 
and  go-ahead  frame  of  mind.  And  now  we've  got  no  Opposi- 
tion, not  that  counts.  There's  only  old  Pelham,  and  ten 
months  out  of  the  twelve  he  don't  know  what  he  is — he's  get- 
ting doddery,  poor  old  chap." 

"I've  made  him  chairman  of  the  Watch  Committee.  That 
seems  in  his  line,  and  ought  to  relieve  his  feelings  a  bit." 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S, TOWN     335 

"Yes,  that  Courier  business  upset  him  and  Robert.  Egad! 
Benbow  was  a  fool.  But  now  we've  started  a  Watch  Commit- 
tee ...  first-class  idea  of  mine,  that,  wasn't  it?" 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  idea  of  a  Watch  Committee  had 
been  Monypenny's,  but  he  had  managed  to  let  it  appear  as 
Lewnes's,  even  to  the  Alderman  himself.  He  had  seen  how  the 
establishment  of  a  Watch  Committee  would  perpetuate  the 
Courier  scandal,  besides  giving  Marlingate  a  reputation  it  had 
so  far  done  nothing  to  earn.  He  could  hear  people  talking — 
"Marlingate — an  awful  place — they've  had  to  set  up  a  Watch 
Committee  there — awful  state  of  affairs."  So  he  had  suggested 
forming  the  sub-committee  appointed  to  investigate  the  Benbow 
outrage  into  a  definite  Watch.  It  consisted  of  Pelham,  Cooper, 
Lewnes  and  Lusted,  and  would,  he  felt  sure,  soon  make  the 
name  of  Marlingate  to  stink  throughout  the  realm. 

§13 

The  September  of  that  year  was  an  empty  month.  As  soon 
as  the  excursions  stopped,  after  the  first  week,  the  town  had  a 
desolate  look,  for  the  visitors  survived  only  in  casual  groups, 
dotted  forlornly  about  the  beach,  lurking  in  corners  of  the 
Marine  Gardens,  or  scattered  sparsely  over  the  Parade.  There 
had  always  been  one  empty  month  in  the  year — November, 
when  the  last  of  the  Summer  visitors  was  gone,  and  the  first 
Winter  patron  had  not  come.  During  November  Marlingate 
had  briskly  cleaned  and  prepared  itself,  for  it  knew  that  there 
would  be  no  further  leisure  till  November  came  round  again. 
Even  Spring-painting  and  Spring-cleaning  could  not  keep 
Spring  visitors  away.  But  early  in  the  town's  decline,  Novem- 
ber had  enlarged  itself,  its  emptiness  overflowing  into  October 
and  at  last  into  December.  Then  a  gap  appeared  in  the  Spring 
season.  March  became  an  empty  month  and  matched  Novem- 
ber; and  now  the  void  spread  up  and  down  both  sides  of  the 
year,  from  September  to  Christmas,  and  from  February  to  June. 


336  TAMARISK  TOWN 

It  was  even  rumoured  that  this  year  the  two  converging  chan- 
nels would  flow  together  and  wipe  out  the  Winter  season. 
There  was  to  be  no  orchestra,  for  the  Corporation  were  saving 
money  to  spend  on  an  even  more  successful  Summer.  Great 
schemes  of  advertisement  were  afoot — at  Charing  Cross  and 
at  Victoria  hectic  posters  should  call  "Come  to  sunny  Mar- 
lingate"  after  Hurdicotts  and  Papillons  and  Lincolns  and  Ful- 
leyloves  on  their  way  to  Eastbourne  and  Brighton  and  Bulver- 
hythe. 

Monypenny  felt  relieved  to  find  peace  in  the  town  again. 
The  Summer  had  tried  him,  in  spite  of  its  promise,  and  now 
he  was  glad  to  be  able  to  make  his  way  unjostled  along  the 
pavements,  or  sit  in  the  Town  Park,  in  the  misty  Autumn  sun- 
shine, without  being  forced  to  contemplate  banana  skins  and 
sprawling  couples.  He  spent  his  time,  on  the  whole,  quietly,  for 
he  was  very  tired.  But  sometimes  queer  explosions  of  energy 
would  send  him  walking  out  of  the  town,  not  out  to  the  farms 
he  dreamed  of,  but  to  places  within  easier  reach.  He  visited 
Old  Rumble,  where  the  house  now  stood  empty,  for  the  mean 
streets  of  the  Totty  Lands  had  crept  up  to  its  park  palings, 
forming  a  new,  less  picturesque  America  Ground,  through  which 
it  was  hardly  safe  to  walk  alone  at  night.  He  visited  the  woods 
where  he  had  gone  with  Morgan,  by  Harold's  Plat  and  the 
Rumble  Brook.  He  seemed  to  see  himself  slinking  through  the 
trees,  the  young  Monypenny,  leaving  his  prosperous  town  be- 
hind him,  going  out  to  meet  a  love  that  was  the  sunshine  and 
colour  and  secret  of  the  woods.  .  .  . 

One  day  he  went  westward  over  Spitalman's  Down,  and, 
looking  towards  the  sunset,  saw  in  the  distance  how  the  town  of 
Bulverhythe  was  growing.  He  could  see  the  dim  shapes  of 
large  buildings,  mansions  and  hotels,  the  spire  of  a  new  church, 
the  important  outlines  of  gasworks  and  water-works.  Only 
twenty  years  ago,  when  Marlingate  was  in  its  prime,  Bulver- 
hythe had  been  a  quiet  little  village  a  mile  from  the  sea.  Then 
suddenly  it  had  stirred,  the  sap  of  ambition  had  run  into  it, 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN     337 

and  it  had  grown  as  far  as  the  beach.  Large  barracks  had  been 
built  near  it  and  helped  its  life — it  had  spread  and  flourished 
and  fattened,  and  now  people  who  came  to  Marlingate  no 
longer  went  to  Bulveryhythe  and  spoke  well  of  its  liveliness  and 
fashion. 

As  he  watched  it  there,  melting  into  the  red  western  light, 
Monypenny  felt  almost  a  pang  of  longing  and  regret— such  as 
many  years  ago  the  Mayor  of  Belgarswick  might  have  felt 
when  he  looked  towards  Marlingate.  There  lay  the  town  that 
was  to  supplant  him,  the  town  of  the  future,  the  town  with  all 
its  history  before  it  instead  of  behind.  He  wondered  what  the 
Mayor  of  Bulverhythe  felt  as  he  looked  at  his  town.  It  was 
a  fine  thing  to  be  Mayor  of  a  thriving  town.  ...  It  was  a  great 
thing  to  build  a  town,  to  raise  a  poor  little  village  out  of 
obscurity,  to  drive  back  the  woods  and  the  sea. 

He  turned  with  a  sigh  towards  the  east  from  which  the  light 
was  fading,  leaving  a  pool  of  tremulous  green  above  All  Holland 
Hill.  Half  a  mile's  walk  brought  him  back  within  sight  of 
Marlingate,  and  then  his  mood  quickly  changed.  The  sunset 
swam  over  the  town,  but  owing  to  his  position  the  light  did 
not  drink  it  up,  only  showed  it  more  clearly — the  lines  of  its 
roofs  arid  the  corners  of  its  streets  and  the  dim  green  blots  of 
its  gardens  and  tamarisks.  As  he  walked  down  the  slope  of 
Cuckoo  Hill,  he  could  even  see  the  "To  Let"  boards  hanging 
like  black  flags  over  garden-walls  and  area  railings.  Under  the 
swimming  light  the  streets  had  a  peculiar  look  as  of  being 
under  water,  a  town  swallowed  up  by  the  sea.  The  illusion 
was  increased  by  the  silence  in  which  it  lay — looking  down  at 
it  from  the  hill  he  had  the  sensation  of  looking  down  into  a 
pool  of  shining  sea-water,  and  the  drowned  city  at  the  bottom 
of  it.  ... 

Yes,  it  was  a  great  thing  to  build  a  town,  a  great  thing  to 
bring  fame  and  prosperity  to  an  obscure  seaside  village — but 
it  was  an  even  greater  thing  to  destroy  a  town,  to  bring  a 
thriving,  flourishing  watering-place  to  ruin.  Any  man  with 


338  TAMARISK  TOWN 

wealth  and  energy  and  enterprise  could  boom  a  decent  village 
into  a  fashionable  resort,  but  one  had  to  be  more  than  wealthy 
and  enterprising  to  work  the  charm  backwards.  One  had  to 
be  damn  clever. 

He  had  been  damn  clever — far  more  in  this  than  in  his  first 
achievement.  For  he  had  had  no  tradition  to  follow,  no  gospel 
to  preach,  no  disciples  to  organise — he  had  had  to  work  silently 
and  secretly,  using  tendencies,  snatching  opportunities.  He 
had  seen  the  tokens  of  decay  in  other  towns  and  worked  them 
back  to  causes,  he  had  taken  advantage  of  tendencies  in  the 
Town  Council,  and  he  used  stalking-horses  such  as  Lewnes 
and  Benbow.  Attacking  Marlingate  first  through  its  beauty 
and  selectness  he  had  worked  down  to  its  foundations  of  pros- 
perity. It  had  been  a  long  and  terrible  job,  and  in  the  process 
of  it  he  had  lost  all  that  he  had  still  left  to  lose — his  wife,  his 
son,  his  fortune,  his  health.  But  he  had  avenged  his  love — 
Marlingate  would  not  live  to  triumph  over  that.  Wounded, 
bereaved  and  broken  as  he  was,  he  had  won  his  victory,  for  he 
had  vindicated  his  manhood  in  the  face  of  the  grinding  forces 
of  the  earth,  and  had  shown  himself  able  to  destroy  the  work 
of  his  own  hands  when  that  work  had  become  vile. 

§14 

He  was  now  only  a  few  hundred  yards  above  Gun  Garden 
House,  but  as  he  turned  into  the  path  that  led  down  to  it,  he 
realised  that  a  man  was  coming  towards  him  along  the  hillside. 
He  walked  quickly  over  the  uneven  ground  and  something  in 
his  walk  was  familiar.  Monypenny  stared  at  him,  and  blinked; 
surely  it  couldn't  be  .... 

"Ted!" 

He  was  utterly  surprised,  but  not  mistaken.  The  young  man, 
looking  maturer  than  when  he  saw  him  last,  came  up  to  within 
*  few  yards  of  him,  and  then  paused  uncertainly. 

"I  thought  it  was  you,  Sir." 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN    339 

"What  are  you  doing  here?" 

"I  came  down  for  the  day." 

"Oh,  Becket,  I  suppose?" 

"No— he's  not  here." 

They  stood  for  a  moment  in  silence.  Monypenny's  heart 
was  beating  very  fast.  He  had  not  seen  his  son  for  nearly 
eighteen  months,  and  his  feelings  were  a  mixture  of  joy  and 
amazement  and  suspicion.  What  game  was  the  boy  up  to? 
Did  he  imagine  that  the  Opposition  was  not  dead?  A  cold 
breeze  came  rustling  up  from  the  sea.  Monypenny  shivered, 
and  turned  up  his  coat-collar. 

"I  mustn't  keep  you,"  said  Ted. 

"Have  you  been  to  Gun  Garden  House?' 

"No." 

"Then  what  on  earth  are  you  here  for?" 

"Oh,  Fve  been  looking  about." 

"In  Marlingate?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  what  d'you  think  of  it?" — he  could  not  resist  the 
taunt. 

Ted  did  not  answer. 

"But  I  fail  to  see,"  continued  Monypenny,  "why  you  should 
want  to  look  about  Marlingate.  You  haven't,  I  gather,  over 
much  free  time,  or  even  much  free  cash  .  .  .  and  I  thought 
you'd  given  up  the  place." 

"I  can't  give  it  up." 

The  voice  came  dully  and  sadly,  with  almost  a  ring  of  pro- 
test in  it.  Monypenny  looked  quickly  at  his  son. 

"So,  it's  got  you,  too?" 

Ted  did  not  grasp  his  meaning. 

"It  got  me  once,"  continued  his  father,  rubbing  his  hands 
together,  "but  it  had  to  let  me  go." 

"I  wish  it  would  let  me  go,"  said  Ted  drearily — "I  can't 
give  myself  up  to  new  things  when  I  want  the  old  things  so 
much."7 


340  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"Won't  the  new  things  take  its  place?  You've  got  a  career 
.  .  .  and  a  wife." 

"I  was  keen  on  being  an  architect  only  so  that  I  could  build 
up  Marlingate.  There's  no  good  my  designing  beastly  market- 
halls  for  places  I  don't  care  tuppence  about,  or  public  baths 
for  holes  I've  never  heard  of,  or  houses  for  some  upstart  manu- 
facturing place — houses  that'll  be  black  before  they've  been 
up  a  year.  That's  the  kind  of  thing  I'm  doing  now,  and  am 
likely  to  do  all  my  life.  I  tell  you  all  I  want  is  to  rebuild 
Marlingate — pull  down  that  mess  over  there" — waving  his  hand 
towards  the  new  town — "and  build  streets  and  houses  worthy  of 
the  old  place  and  the  streets  that  Figg  built.  But  I've  no 
chance  of  doing  that  now  .  .  .  you'd  see  me  damned  first." 

"Is  your  wife  here?" 

"No — it  wasn't  worth  it.  I'd  the  afternoon  off,  so  I  thought 
I'd  just  run  down  for  a  few  hours  by  the  2 130  train." 

He  looked  at  Monypenny  rather  defensively.  He  felt  that 
his  father  was  prying  for  some  sign  of  failure  in  his  marriage. 

"She  isn't  interested  in  Marlingate?" 

"Yes — of  course  she  is.  But  there's  no  use  dragging  her 
down  here,  especially  after  the  way  her  father's  been  treated." 

Monypenny  did  not  speak  for  a  moment.  He  was  asking 
himself  a  question — he  had  tried  to  ask  it  of  Ted,  but  he  saw 
the  boy  was  far  too  loyal  to  answer.  His  look  softened  almost 
to  pity,  and  he  surprised  his  son  by  patting  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

"Take  my  advice,  lad,  and  don't  think  any  more  of  Mar- 
lingate. You  can't  do  anything  for  it;  all  the  king's  horses 
and  all  the  king's  men  can't  build  it  up — now." 

Ted  stared  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Then  you  do  acknowledge  that  the  place  is  in  a  bad  way?" 

"Certainly." 

"Oh,  my  God!    If  only  you'd  seen  it  before  .  .  ." 

"I  saw  it  all  the  time." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 


THE  iMAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN    341 

"Half  an  hour  ago  I  was  at  the  other  side  of  the  hill,  looking 
at  Bulverhythe,  and  I  realised  how  much  more  difficult  it  is 
to  destroy  a  town  than  to  build  it." 

Ted  stared  at  him. 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about.  All  I  know  is 
that  if  I'd  made  such  a  mess  of  things  as  you  have,  Sir,  I 
shouldn't  be  so — so  infernally  complacent  about  it." 

Monypenny  felt  his  anger  rising  against  Ted's  ignorance. 

"You  don't  know  what  I'm  talking  about,  or  what  you're 
talking  about,  either.  I  tell  you  it's  a  big  thing  to  have 
smashed  up  a  place  like  Marlingate.  You  could  build  it  easy 
enough — you're  probably  right  there — but  you  couldn't  destroy 
it,  as  I've  done." 

"My  dear  Father,  I  fail  to  understand  you.  You've  mis- 
managed and  muddled  one  of  the  finest  towns  in  England,  so 
that  at  last  even  you  have  to  acknowledge  it's  ruined.  I  don't 
know  whether  I  ought  to  speak  to  you  like  this,  but  I  must  say 
that  if  I'd  made  the  mess  of  things  you  have,  I'd  be  humbled 
to  the  dust." 

"Not  if  you'd  done  it  on  purpose." 

Ted  gaped. 

"If  all  this  had  been  done  by  accident — by  mismanagement 
and  miscalculation — then  there'd  be  some  cause  to  be  ashamed. 
But  as  it  has  been  worked  out  as  carefully  as  the  building 
was — thought  out,  worked  out,  planned,  struggled  for — my 
God!  how  I've  fought  the  place! — I  tell  you  it's  something  to 
be  proud  of,  not  ashamed." 

Ted  was  speechless,  but  Monypenny's  confidence  grew,  and 
he  found  a  queer  relief  in  it.  He  had  never  told  anyone  before 
of  his  plans  to  ruin  Marlingate,  but  Ted  was  worthy  to  hear 
them,  for  he  was  one  of  the  few  who  had  seen  that  the  place 
was  ruined — a  great  many,  in  spite  of  omens,  believed  that 
Marlingate  had  never  been  more  prosperous  than  it  was  now. 

"I've  been  at  it  now  for  nearly  twenty-four  years,  practically 
your  life-time.  It  was  on  the  day  you  were  born  that  I  made 


342  TAMARISK  TOWN 

up  my  mind  to  do  it.  On  that  day  I  saw  that  the  only  way  to 
save  myself  was  by  vengeance.  Never  mind  what  it  was  for. 
I  swore  that  day  that  I'd  smash  up  the  place — I'd  make  it  a 
third-rate,  decayed  sort  of  hole — like  Belgarswick.  And  I've 
done  it.  You  tried  to  stop  me — but  I  tripped  you  up  in  the 
rope  I'd  fallen  over  myself,  and  I  bundled  you  out.  Now  Mar- 
lingate's  lost — ruined.  There's  no  good  your  trying  to  put  it 
together  again  after  I'm  gone.  You  can't — I've  smashed  it 
beyond  any  chance  of  that/' 

He  looked  at  his  son,  wondering  what  he  would  see  on  his 
face — rage,  disappointment,  horror,  or — perhaps,  even — ad- 
miration. He  saw  none  of  these,  but,  instead,  a  look  which 
he  could  not  read. 

The  boy  came  up  to  him,  and  gently  laid  his  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

"Don't  talk  like  that,  Father— and  don't  worry.  Don't 
let's  talk  any  more  about  Marlingate.  I'm  sorry  I've  been  such 
a  plague  to  you." 

He  thought  his  father  was  mad.  Nothing  else  could  ac- 
count for  what  he  had  just  heard.  The  muddle  and  ruin  of 
Marlingate,  and  his  own  financial  implication,  had  affected  his 
brain,  and  inspired  him  with  this  monstrous,  megalomaniacal 
delusion.  There  was  something  infinitely  pathetic  in  this 
shaky,  proud  old  man,  whose  mind  had  been  so  cruelly  scarred 
in  the  battle  he  had  lost.  He  looked  smitten  in  body,  too.  His 
skin  showed  unhealthily  yellow  against  his  white  hair  and  whis- 
kers, and  he  stooped  badly,  who  used  to  be  so  erect.  The  hand 
on  his  stick  was  an  old  man's  hand  with  blue,  knotted  veins. 

"Father,  please  forgive  me  for  having  hurt  you." 

"It's  easy  enough  to  forgive  you  now  you've  lost  and  I've 
won." 

"Don't  .  .  .  please.  Don't  let's  talk  of  Marlingate  any 
more.  I'm  sorry  I've  worried  you  and  crossed  your  wishes. 
Now  let's  leave  it  alone." 

"Will  you  come  home  with  me  and  see  your  mother?" 


THE  MAYOR  OF  DEAD  MAN'S  TOWN    343 

"I  can't  now.  I  must  catch  the  seven  o'clock  train  back. 
But  I'll  come  down  another  day  with  Lindsay  and  see  you 
both." 

"You  ain't  particularly  happy,  are  you?" 

"Of  course  I  am." 

Monypenny  said  nothing.  Standing  there  on  the  hill  beside 
his  son,  he  was  asking  himself  if  it  was  possible  that  this  boy, 
too,  had  made  the  wrong  choice.  Morgan's  husband  would  not 
have  run  back  for  craving  glances  at  Marlingate,  so  why  should 
Lindsay's?  It  would  be  a  dreadful  thing  if  here  beside  the 
man  who  had  mistakenly  renounced  his  love  for  his  town 
should  stand  the  man  who  had  mistakenly  renounced  his 
town  for  his  love.  Did  life  never  bless? 

The  fiery  sunset  had  swung  down  into  the  sea;  a  crimson 
light  stroked  All  Holland  Hill,  and  wandered  over  the  roofs  of 
Marlingate.  For  a  moment  the  town  was  like  a  burning  pyre, 
then  dusky  purples  smoked  it,  and  it  smouldered  into  grey.  It 
lay  a  heap  of  ashes  between  the  hills,  waiting  for  the  night. 


CHAPTER  IV 
RECONCILIATION 

§i 

THAT  November  Monypenny  was  again  elected  Mayor.  He 
was  anxious  now  to  keep  in  office  till  his  death.  He  did  not 
expect  to  live  much  longer — he  had  suffered  from  one  or  two 
recurrences  of  his  illness,  and  he  detected  a  forced  note  in 
Dr.  Cooper's  optimism. 

"Bah!  You  may  live  to  be  ninety,"  said  the  doctor  alder- 
man, with  a  punch  at  his  patient's  ribs,  too  obviously  careful  to 
be  encouraging. 

"Thanks.  I'd  rather  not,"  said  Monypenny.  Another  year 
or  two  was  all  he  wanted. 

That  year  was  his  sixteenth  year  in  office,  and  a  record  in 
Marlingate,  indeed  in  other  towns.  Monypenny  found  his 
photograph  in  the  Daily  Graphic,  and  another  paper  spoke  of 
him  as  the  "grand  old  man"  of  Marlingate.  Locally  the  oc- 
casion was  celebrated  by  a  banquet  given  him  at  the  Maiden- 
hood by  his  Aldermen  and  Councillors  and  the  most  prominent 
townspeople.  He  was  popular  in  the  town,  in  spite  of  his 
formal  manner,  which  grew  if  anything  more  stiff  and  starched 
with  the  years.  The  banquet  was  almost  a  banquet  of  old 
times.  Robin  Huss  appeared  in  all  his  glory,  and  the  trades- 
men and  innkeepers  and  local  investors  he  had  put  on  the  road 
to  ruin  drank  his  health  with  hearty  clappings  and  shouts.  The 
aged  Pelham  rose  with  a  spilling  glass  in  his  shaky  hand,  to 
strew  the  last  flowers  of  speech  in  his  seedy  old  garden  at  the 

34* 


RECONCILIATION  345 

feet  of  "our  esteemed  Mayor  and  fellow-townsman,  our  wor- 
shipful Er-er." 

For  some  reason  Monypenny  felt  a  lump  in  his  throat  during 
Pelham's  speech.  Pelham  was  a  relic  of  the  old  days,  a 
memory  almost  as  old  as  his  first  ambition.  When  he  spoke 
it  was  as  the  voice  of  the  old  Marlingate  speaking,  the  Mar- 
lingate  he  had  loved,  and  whose  ghost  lived  still  in  crooked 
ways  and  weather-stung  old  houses — haunting  Zuriel  Place  and 
Tamarisk  Row  and  Harpsichord  House  and  the  old  red  houses 
at  the  foot  of  the  Coney  Banks — the  Marlingate  he  had  not 
built  and  did  not  want  to  destroy.  Old  Pelham  droned  on, 
then  sat  down  among  the  respectful  applause  of  old  Lewnes,  old 
Lusted,  old  Benbow  and  other  contemporaries,  and  the  profane 
sniggers  of  Mark  Boas,  the  Town  Clerk,  and  the  other  young 
men  on  the  Council.  Then  Monypenny  stood  up — old  Mony- 
penny. 

His  voice  came  more  harshly  nowadays,  with  a  hoarse, 
grating  sound,  and  in  the  characteristic  pauses  and  breaks  of 
his  delivery  he  sometimes  coughed  and  cleared  his  throat.  But 
every  word  he  said  was  strong  and  clear,  and  had  all  the 
strength  and  clearness  of  his  brain  behind  it.  He  stooped  a 
little — more  than  usual  today  with  the  weight  of  his  Mayoral 
chain — but  his  figure  was  commanding,  though  he  did  not  wear 
his  robes  of  office,  merely  a  tightly  buttoned  frock-coat,  grey 
trousers,  and  a  collar  with  soaring  wings  each  side  of  his  long 
chin. 

He  gave  the  Corporation's  plans  for  the  next  Summer  season. 
The  borough  fathers  had  in  their  wisdom  decided  to  put  all 
their  strength  and  credit  into  the  Summer.  For  that  reason 
the  Winter  orchestra  had  bee  abolished,  saving  the  town  many 
hundreds  of  pounds.  The  money  could  be  spent  on  a  record 
Summer  splash — record  advertisements,  record  excursions,  a 
municipal  band,  confetti  fetes,  carnivals  and  other  entertain- 
ments. Marlingate  should  show  itself  as  capable  as  other  towns 
of  moving  with  the  times. 


346  TAMARISK  TOWN 

While  he  spoke  he  noticed  that  some  of  the  young  men  were 
sniggering  at  him,  as  they  had  sniggered  at  Pelham.  He  did 
not  mind;  he  only  thought  how  fitted  they  were  to  carry  on 
his  work  after  he  was  gone.  Young  idiots — let  'em  grin.  They 
could  never  build  a  town,  still  less  knock  it  down.  In  his 
heart  he  mocked  the  young  men. 


§2 

That  Winter  was  the  quietest  Marlingate  had  ever  known. 
The  dim,  white,  gleaming  days  succeeded  one  another  like  pearls 
on  a  string.  The  sun  hung  a  pale  disk  over  a  channel  veiled 
in  torn  silver  webs,  and  in  the  short,  misty  twilight  Marlingate 
shone  like  a  pewter  town  beside  a  pewter  sea.  No  more 
strident  tones  came  from  it  to  break  the  peace ;  all  the  Summer 
it  had  rioted  and  shouted,  and  now  it  lay  tired  and  still,  its 
colours  drained  out  of  it,  its  streets  empty  and  silent,  its  parks 
and  gardens  soggy  and  brined  with  the  deposit  of  the  sea-mist, 
which  ate  away  its  stucco,  and  toned  its  paint  into  dim,  neutral 
sea-colours,  which  were  also  the  colours  of  rots  and  mosses  and 
soils. 

On  the  Marine  Parade  the  bandstand  stood  empty.  It  rose 
an  empty  boss  off  the  wet  gleaming  slabs  of  Portland  stone, 
and  round  it  were  the  empty  iron  seats  (such  as  could  not,  like 
the  deck  chairs,  be  packed  up  and  put  away) .  Sometimes  when 
the  weather  was  less  still,  and  the  brooding  fogs  ceased  to 
flatten  and  smooth  the  sea,  there  would  be  strange  music  there. 
The  wind  would  fiddle  through  its  arches,  and  the  drums  of  the 
sea  thud  their  rumbling  accompaniment  against  its  foundations. 
The  wind  skimmed  and  danced  along  the  battered  fagade  of  the 
Marine  houses,  calling  queer  notes  and  hummings  out  of  their 
columns  and  pediments  .  .  .  then  it  was  as  if  the  ghost  of 
Mamma  in  her  paisley  shawl  sat  between  her  genteel  daughters 
on  the  empty  seat  and  listened  to  the  orchestra  of  wind  and  sea. 

Monypenny  sometimes  listened  to  it,  alone  on  the  empty,  wet 


RECONCILIATION  347 

Parade.  At  dusk  the  place  was  always  forsaken,  for  the  few 
visitors  had  mostly  come  for  the  sake  of  their  health,  and 
though  they  would  spend  the  day  enjoying  the  dim,  sweet  sun- 
shine which  was  the  one  gift  Monypenny  could  not  take  from 
Marlingate,  they  seldom  ventured  out  of  their  lodgings  after 
dark. 

Occasionally  in  these  twilight  prowlings  he  would  catch 
queer  glimpses  of  beauty  and  dignity  in  the  ugliness  he  had 
created.  Walking  home  from  the  Parade,  up  the  High  Street, 
he  would  see  the  hideous  stucco  houses  piling  on  the  hill-slopes 
like  the  tiers  of  some  huge  ampitheatre.  On  the  left  the  Coney 
Banks  would  rise  from  the  gnarled  houses  at  their  roots  to  the 
houses  of  Lewnes  and  Lusted — on  the  right  Mount  Idle  still 
showed  under  the  stars  the  gleam  of  its  ancient  whiteness. 
Houses  and  chimneys,  dredged  of  all  colour  by  the  night,  silted 
up  towards  the  Totty  Lands  and  the  horror  of  New  Marlingate 
— purged  by  the  starlight  into  something  mysterious  and  ma- 
jestic. It  was  all  like  some  great  arena — vast,  towering,  loom- 
ing, its  very  ugliness  giving  it  a  queer  sort  of  dignity.  Above  it 
the  stars  winked  on  the  dark  zenith,  and  at  the  bottom  of  it 
was  he,  the  man  who  had  made  it,  looking  up  at  those  great 
stars  as  from  the  bottom  of  a  well. 

§3 

Ted  Monypenny  had  availed  himself  only  perfunctorily  of 
his  father's  permission  to  visit  Gun  Garden  House.  The  scar- 
city of  time  and  money  and  a  decided  unwillingness  on  Lind- 
say's part  had  reinforced  a  definite  reluctance  of  his  own.  He 
could  not  bear  the  sight  of  Marlingate  dropping  contentedly 
into  squalor — the  cheapness  and  ugliness  of  the  new  building, 
the  debasing  of  the  old  aesthetic  and  social  ideals,  the  scrub- 
biness  of  the  Winter  season,  all  combined  to  depress  him. 

He  brought  Lindsay  down  at  the  beginning  of  January,  but 
the  visit  was  not  a  great  success.  Ted  found  his  surroundings 


348  TAMARISK  TOWN 

even  drearier  than  in  September,  and  though  Lindsay  did  her 
best  to  be  agreeable  she  could  not  thaw  completely,  while 
Monypenny's  attitude  towards  her  was  strangely  defensive. 
Ted  managed  to  avoid  a  solitary  interview  with  his  father,  but 
he  spoke  to  his  mother  rather  seriously  about  him.  Fanny  shed 
a  few  tears  over  her  husband's  physical  condition,  but  when  her 
son  went  forward  to  impeach  his  mind,  she  could  not  follow. 

"Your  father  always  had  a  wonderful  brain,"  she  insisted — 
"sometimes  he's  so  clever  that  he  quite  frightens  me.  I  can't 
keep  up  with  him  ...  I  lose  the  thread." 

"But  when  I  saw  him  in  September  it  struck  me  that  he — er 
— that  he  suffered  from  delusions." 

"Oh,  no,  my  dear,  I'm  sure  he  doesn't.  He  never  had  a  de- 
lusion in  his  life.  It's  wonderful  how  clearly  he  sees  things." 

Ted  did  not  press  the  matter  further.  He  went  back  to 
London  profoundly  saddened.  Even  his  official  reconciliation 
with  his  family  did  not  comfort  him  much.  He  could  never  go 
back  to  Marlingate  as  a  son,  for  with  the  town  itself  he  could 
never  be  reconciled.  He  had  forsaken  it  in  its  hour  of  need, 
and  now  it  was  too  late  to  retrieve  his  desertion.  In  his  absence 
the  whole  Opposition  had  crumbled  and  the  place  had  settled 
down  into  decay.  At  present  only  a  few  clear-sighted  people 
saw  the  ruin,  but  the  time  would  come  when  the  downfall  of 
Marlingate  would  be  an  open  shame.  Then  probably  Lewnes 
and  Lusted  and  all  the  rest  of  that  beastly  lot  would  turn  on 
the  proud  old  Mayor  and  rend  him.  "O  my  God!"  thought 
Ted,  "I  wish  I  could  get  him  out  of  this!" 

§4 

Early  in  March  Monypenny  heard  from  his  son  that  Becket 
was  very  ill.  He  had  had  a  kind  of  stroke,  and  though  he  had 
made  a  partial  recovery  his  condition  was  serious.  The  doctor 
had  ordered  sea-air,  and  as  the  tenants  had  left  the  Coney 
Banks  house,  and  there  was  no  immediate  prospect  of  another 


RECONCILIATION  349 

let,  he  and  Lindsay  would  go  down  to  Marlingate  for  a  few 
weeks.  Ted  himself  could  not  leave  town,  except  perhaps  for 
an  occasional  week-end. 

Monypenny  suspected  a  separation  that  was  only  half-un- 
willing— reading  the  dim  signs  and  tokens  of  his  son's  life  in 
the  light  that  had  been  given  him  on  his  two  visits  to  Mar- 
lingate. He  saw  a  gradual  disillusion,  feeding  on  regret  and 
self-reproach,  and  now  expressing  itself  in  circumstances.  The 
passionate  love  which  had  made  Ted  renounce  his  ambition  for 
Lindsay's  sake  would  never  have  allowed  her  to  go  from  him 
like  this.  Some  other  refuge  could  have  been  found  for  Becket 
— after  all,  there  were  poor  Emma's  sons  and  daughters,  and  he 
need  not  have  taken  poor  Morgan's  girl  from  her  husband  to  be 
his  nurse.  It  was  not  likely  that  there  had  been  any  open  break 
between  Ted  and  Lindsay — probably,  indeed,  there  had  been 
no  inward  acknowledgment  of  division — but  Monypenny  could 
tell  from  his  own  experience  the  relief  of  dropping  the  outward 
symbolism  of  love,  of  bringing  the  body  into  the  solitude  that 
the  heart  has  long  ago  created.  Ted  would  be  happier  than  he 
had  been  for  many  weeks,  alone  in  the  smutty  Georgian  rooms 
in  Brunswick  Square,  no  longer  forced  to  the  expression  of  what 
he  did  not  feel,  the  flesh  sharing  the  celibacy  of  the  spirit — and 
he  had  not  been  married  two  years. 

Towards  Becket,  Monypenny's  feelings  were  of  pure  exas- 
peration. He  had  grown  more  irascible  of  late  years — it  was 
one  of  the  ways  in  which  he  showed  their  advance;  Fanny  com- 
plained of  it  in  secret  to  Sue,  and  Bateson — West's  inadequate 
successor — periodically  informed  the  servants'  hall  that  the 
governor  was  a  oner  to  lose  his  wool.  The  sight  of  Becket  mad- 
dened him,  and  the  sight  of  Becket  was  a  common  one  that 
Spring — an  old  man  being  wheeled  up  and  down  the  Marine 
Parade  in  a  bath-chair,  his  elegant,  unapproachable  daughter 
walking  beside  him.  Monypenny  would  give  them  a  cold,  for- 
mal bow,  to  which  Lindsay  would  reply  with  a  slight  inclination 
of  her  head.  Becket  made  no  reply,  for  his  head  was  perma- 


350  TAMARISK  TOWN 

nently  fixed  over  one  shoulder  as  if  he  were  eternally  on  the 
verge  of  looking  round  at  something  behind — and  nothing  very 
pleasant  to  judge  by  the  confused,  uneasy  expression  on  his 
face.  Monypenny  hated  him — the  old  image !  trundling  up  and 
down  the  Marine  Parade  that  his  long-lost  money  had  built, 
at  once  grovelling  and  flaunting  in  his  ruin. 

§5 

Monypenny  prided  himself  that  he  neither  flaunted  nor 
grovelled,  though  his  financial  condition  was  considerably  worse 
than  Becket's.  He  had  not  been  so  well  off  to  start  with,  and 
was  even  tighter  coiled  in  the  town's  disasters.  The  Marine 
Hotel,  after  a  gallant  effort  to  carry  on  over  the  empty  Spring, 
had  at  last  gone  into  liquidation.  The  Aquarium  threatened 
to  follow,  and  it  was  proposed  to  sell  it  for  what  it  would  fetch 
to  an  Entertainment  Syndicate  which  owned  several  Casinos 
and  Palace  Piers  on  the  South  Coast.  Monypenny  was,  more- 
over, involved  in  the  New  Marlingate  enterprise  which  now,  like 
everything  else  in  the  town,  was  showing  signs  of  financial  de- 
bility. He  had  contrived  so  far  to  pay  punctually  his  interest 
on  the  Monypenny  estate  mortgage.  A  certain  pride  had  kept 
him  to  this,  but  he  now  saw  little  prospect  of  being  able  to 
redeem  on  the  date  fixed  in  the  mortgage  deed.  He  would 
either  have  to  raise  a  further,  equitable  mortgage  on  the  estate, 
or  let  Becket  foreclose,  and  sue  him  on  the  covenant.  He  in- 
clined towards  the  latter  course,  his  only  fear  being  that 
Becket  would  indulge  a  sentimental  mercy  on  account  of  his 
poor  dear  Morgan  having  once  "thought  a  lot"  of  his  debtor 

In  May  a  few  timid  visitors  began  to  trickle  down,  but  soon 
fled  in  boredom  from  the  pleasureless  place,  with  the  empty 
windows  of  the  Marine  Hotel  staring  gauntly  down  at  the 
Parade.  In  June  the  town  looked  more  animated.  Excursion- 
ists began  to  arrive,  and  at  least  brought  colour  and  noise.  A 
brass  band,  engaged  by  the  Corporation,  started  its  duties  in 


RECONCILIATION  35 1 

the  bandstand,  and  the  Aquarium  was  occupied  by  a  dramatic 
company.  A  series  of  confetti  fetes  was  organised  on  the  Pier, 
and  quite  half  the  Apartment  cards  vanished  from  the  windows. 

"What  I  can't  understand,"  said  Lusted  to  Lewnes,  "is  why, 
with  the  place  filling  up  like  this,  things  don't  pay  better." 
Lusted  was  in  the  Central  toils  of  the  Braybrooke  Farm  Estate 
Syndicate,  which  in  spite  of  the  crowds  that  filled  the  town  was 
staggering  in  a  perplexity  of  empty  houses  and  falling  rents. 

"Only  temporary,  my  dear  chap,  only  temporary,"  said 
Lewnes.  "Things  often  go  down  like  that  for  a  year  or  two  for 
no  particular  reason.  But  we're  going  the  right  way  to  send 
'em  up  again.  This  is  going  to  be  a  record  year  for  Marlin- 
gate."  Lewnes  had  fewer  financial  anxieties  than  any  man  in 
the  town.  In  the  days  of  the  boom  on  local  investments  he  had 
had  very  little  capital — he  had  spent  most  of  his  profits  on  his 
business,  and  now  was  planning  the  transfer  of  his  Emporium  to 
the  Marine  Parade,  which  with  its  gape  of  empty  premises  could 
no  longer  afford  to  maintain  the  ban  on  shops. 

Old  Becket  continued  to  trundle  up  and  down,  his  bath  chair 
dodging  its  way  between  the  trippers  with  their  linked  arms  and 
changed  hats.  His  intercourse  with  Monypenny  was  still  lim- 
ited to  a  frigid  bow  from  the  latter.  He  had  indeed  once  called 
at  the  familiar  house  on  the  Coney  Banks,  but  on  being  told 
that  Becket  was  out,  had  rightly  or  wrongly  put  this  down  to 
a  wish  to  deny  himself  on  the  merchant's  part,  and  had  merely 
taken  it  as  an  added  cause  of  offence.  He  was  not  exactly 
pleased  when  early  in  July  he  had  a  letter  from  Ted  urging  him 
to  go  and  see  his  father-in-law. 

"I  know  that  you  are  not  on  good  terms,  but  in  the  circum- 
stances I  feel  it  would  be  better  if  either  you  ignored  him  alto- 
gether or  else  ignored  the  quarrel.  I  am  writing  because  I 
hear  from  Lindsay  that  the  poor  old  gentleman  is  getting  quite 
upset  about  the  way  you  bow  to  him  on  the  Parade.  All  this 
is  hateful,  and  I  know  it  is  largely  my  doing,  but  it  seems  hard 
that  my  wife,  and  poor  old  Mr.  Becket,  who  is  in  possession 


352  TAMARISK  TOWN 

of  all  his  faculties,  should  suffer  for  my  fault.  That's  why 
I'm  writing  to  ask  you  to  bury  the  hatchet — you've  buried  the 
blade,  I  know,  by  having  Lindsay  and  me  to  Gun  Garden,  but 
the  handle  still  shows  above  ground.  Please,  Father,  go  to  see 
old  Becket — and  ask  Lindsay  to  come  and  see  you  and  my 
Mother." 

Monypenny  resented  the  tone  of  the  letter. 

"The  young  jackanapes!  Does  he  think  I've  got  time  to  run 
round  bowing  and  scraping  to  all  his  seedy  relations?  And  as 
for  asking  the  girl  to  come  here,  I'm  not  going  to  be  despised  in 
my  own  house  by  a  New  Woman.  That's  what  she  is,  that 
girl;  she's  a  New  Woman — and  treats  me  as  if  I  was  mud. 
Confound  her!" 

However,  in  spite  of  his  blustering,  he  thought  a  good  deal 
of  Ted's  words.  After  all  it  would  not  be  undignified  to  have 
better  relations  with  his  own  daughter-in-law  and  her  father. 
He  need  not  be  friendly,  merely  civil.  The  boy  must  have  been 
worried,  or  he  would  not  have  written  like  that — and  he  did 
not  want  to  add  to  Ted's  worries  ...  for  Ted's  sake  he  would, 
he  told  himself,  endure  Lindsay's  uppishness  and  Becket's  even 
less  tolerable  degradation. 

So  on  a  July  morning  of  salt-smelling  heat,  Monypenny  set 
out  for  the  Coney  Banks.  He  found  Becket  at  home,  for  in  the 
hot  weather  he  did  not  go  out  till  after  tea,  preferring  to  sit  in 
the  drawing-room  with  its  cool  eastward  look  to  All  Holland 
Hill.  He  was  half-lying  in  an  armchair,  which,  when  the  visitor 
came  in,  had  to  be  re-arranged,  so  that  Monypenny  could  sit  on 
his  right.  Ever  since  his  stroke  the  merchant's  head  had  been 
permanently  turned  away  from  the  things  on  his  left. 

Lindsay  moved  and  settled  her  father,  and  was  civil  enough, 
though  also  plain  in  her  intention  of  leaving  the  room.  Mony- 
penny did  not  like  this — for  some  vague  reason  he  did  not 
want  to  be  left  alone  with  Becket — and  was  very  nearly  affable 
in  his  efforts  to  make  her  stay.  But  Lindsay  murmured  some 
smooth  remark  about  "helping  cook  with  the  jam,"  and  went 


RECONCILIATION  353 

out — probably,  he  reflected,  more  set  above  herself  than  ever 
by  his  obvious  wish  for  her  company. 

Left  alone  with  the  merchant  he  made  some  efforts  at  con- 
versation. 

"The  weather  seems  to  have  settled  down  to  be  fine." 

"It's  very  hot." 

Becket's  voice  was  not  so  clear  as  it  used  to  be,  and  his 
tongue  seemed  to  have  grown  larger.  It  showed  a  little  be- 
tween his  teeth. 

"I  expect  you  find  it  trying,"  continued  Monypenny. 

"It's  very  hot,"  repeated  Becket. 

Monypenny  decided  not  to  stay  more  than  a  few  minutes. 
The  sight  of  the  old  man  depressed  him.  It  made  him  think 
of  his  own  age,  though  he  was  nearly  twenty  years  younger. 
It  made  him  think,  too,  of  the  old  days,  when  Becket  had  been 
his  companion  and  henchman,  the  second  in  Marlingate.  This 
was  the  man  who  had  been  so  pompous  at  the  opening  ball  at 
the  Assembly  Room,  so  impressive  at  the  opening  of  the  Town 
Park 

"I'm  sorry  to  see  you  looking  so  poorly,"  he  said. 

"I'm  very  well,"  said  Becket. 

"But  I  daresay  you  still  feel  a  bit  low  after  your  illness." 

"I  feel  very  well." 

"Then  you  don't  look  it,"  said  Monypenny,  ruffled  by  the 
old  fellow's  antagonism. 

"I'm  very  well — very  well  indeed.  Quite  got  over  my  ill- 
ness." 

It  struck  Monypenny  that  Becket  was  trying  to  be  dignified, 
and  his  irritation  died  into  pity. 

"Are  you  down  here  for  a  long  stay?" 

"Dunno.    Till  I  let  the  house." 

"The  town  is  beginning  to  fill  up." 

"With  rubbish — not  the  sort  of  people  that  ud  take  a  good 
house  like  this." 

Monypenny's  anger  rose  again.    He  considered  Becket's  be- 


354  TAMARISK  TOWN 

haviour  most  unseemly — he  had  no  right  to  take  this  tone  with 
him  when  he  had  sacrificed  his  pride  to  pay  a  visit  of  recon- 
ciliation. 

"Don't  let  us  discuss  Marlingate,  Mr.  Becket,  as  it  still  seems 
to  be  a  matter  of  contention  between  us." 

"Of  course  it  is!     Where  are  my  dividends?" 

Monypenny  drew  himself  up. 

"What  am  I  to  leave  my  poor  children  when  I'm  gone?"  con- 
tinued Becket  in  a  rush — "they'll  be  ruined  and  done  for. 
So  will  you.  You're  beginning  to  look  shabby  already  .  .  . 
old  coat." 

Monypenny  was  annoyed  that  Becket  should  criticise  his 
coat,  which  was  certainly  a  little  shiny  at  the  seams. 

"My  coat's  good  enough,"  he  growled — "I  didn't  put  on  my 
best  one  to  come  here." 

Becket's  eyes  were  beginning  to  bulge;  he  was  growing  more 
and  more  angry,  and  Monypenny  was  growing  more  and  more 
angry  with  him.  He  was  angry  with  Ted,  too,  for  urging  him 
into  this  abominable  visit,  which  had  failed  lamentably  as  a 
visit  of  peace.  Becket  had  completely  changed  from  his  usual 
plaintive  sentimentality — probably  his  illness  was  responsible 
for  the  extreme  irritation  into  which  he  had  been  so  easily 
roused.  None  the  less,  Monypenny  felt  annoyed  at  the  sight 
of  his  foolish,  apoplectic  wrath,  and  for  a  moment  the  two  men 
sat  glaring  at  each  other,  Monypenny  lean  and  haggard,  his 
face  falling  away  like  &  diff  from  cavernous  «yes,  Becket  stout 
and  purple,  his  face  bloating  up  round  his  eyes,  which  seemed 
to  be  trying  to  start  out  of  it. 

"Thank  God  my  poor  wife  isn't  alive.  It's  dreadful  to 
think  I  should  ever  thank  God  for  that — but  I'm  glad  she's 
been  spared  all  this  misery." 

Monypenny  was  too  disgusted  to  speak.  He  sat  watching 
a  dark  and  curiously  twisted  vein  rising  on  Becket's  forehead, 
and  apparently  trying  to  race  his  eyes  out  of  his  head. 

"My  poor  Morgan,"  continued  Becket — "it  ud  have  broken 


RECONCILIATION  355 

her  heart  to  see  me  like  this" — ("you  said  a  minute  ago  that 
you  were  perfectly  well,"  thought  Monypenny) — "and  you 
come  to  despise  me  in  my  trouble.  She  wouldn't  have  let  you 
despise  me." 

"My  God,  sir!"  cried  Monypenny,  jumping  to  his  feet,  "is 
this  my  reward  for  trying  to  be  friendly?" 

"Who  asked  you  to  be  friendly?  Where  are  my  dividends? 
I  tell  you  you're  insulting  me  ...  mocking  me.  .  .  .  Thank 
God  I'll  be  going  to  her  soon — she's  waiting  for  me  ...  my 
poor  Morgan.  .  .  ." 

"She  wasn't  yours — she  was  mine." 

Anger  and  disgust  fired  the  words  out  of  him.  The  next 
minute  he  would  have  had  them  unsaid,  but  he  realised  curi- 
ously that  Becket  had  not  taken  in  their  significance.  This 
swung  him  back  into  the  violent  mood,  and  he  repeated  them. 

"She  wasn't  yours — she  was  mine." 

Still  Becket  did  not  seem  to  understand,  and  Monypenny's 
anger  blazed  out  at  him,  consuming  every  impulse  of  pity  or 
reluctance.  Why  should  this  old  fool  die  in  the  belief  that  he 
possessed  Morgan  le  Fay?  When  he  was  dead  he  would  soon 
find  out  his  mistake  ...  he  would  see  then  that  though  he 
was  to  lie  beside  her  in  her  grave  she  did  not  belong  to  him,  but 
to  the  man  who  had  not  found  his  rest.  Often  during  her  life 
he  had  lain  down  beside  her  in  smug  confidence  that  she  be- 
longed to  him,  not  thinking  of  the  man  who  waited  alone  outside 
the  house;  he  should  not  so  lie  down  in  death.  .  .  . 

"I  loved  her,  and  she  loved  me." 

Becket  gave  a  queer,  spluttering  sound. 

"She  loved  me — and  she's  waiting  for  me  now.  There's  no 
good  your  dying  and  going  to  her.  She  doesn't  want  you — 
she's  waiting  for  me." 

"You  liar!" 

Monypenny  realised  half  incredulously  that  Becket  did  not 
believe  him.  His  anger  was  for  the  affront  to  his  wife,  not 
for  his  own  shame.  Becket  was  a  fool. 


356  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"I'm  telling  you  the  truth — for  the  first  time  in  your  life. 
Morgan  loved  me." 

"I  don't  believe  you.  How  could  she  have  loved  you?  She 
was  my  -wife." 

He  delivered  this  argument  with  almost  a  shout  of  triumph. 
Then  suddenly  his  expression  changed.  The  vein  on  his  fore- 
head seemed  to  have  beaten  his  eyes  in  the  race.  It  suf- 
fused .  .  .  spread  ...  his  face  became  purple. 

"Tsch— tsch— tsch." 

His  mouth  opened,  closed,  twisted;  then  his  whole  bulk 
seemed  to  collapse.  Monypenny  was  frightened.  What  had 
he  said  to  Morgan's  husband?  .  .  .  who  had  been  so  kind  to 
her.  .  .  .  Becket  began  to  snore. 

"Hi!— girl!    Lindsay!" 

He  had  pulled  open  the  door,  and  was  shbuting  over  the 
bannisters.  Lindsay  came  running  up.  She  gave  one  terrified 
look  at  Becket. 

"He's  had  another  stroke.  You've  been  exciting  him — go 
and  fetch  a  doctor." 

"Why  did  you  leave  me  alone  with  him?" 

"Fetch  the  doctor,"  she  repeated,  her  voice  rising  hysteri- 
cally on  the  last  syllable. 

He  went  out,  down  the  flights  of  the  narrow  house,  and  out 
of  the  front  door.  Then  he  remembered  that  he  had  forgotten 
his  hat,  and  went  back  for  it,  taking  it  mechanically  off  its  peg. 

"Shabby,  I  suppose  he'd  call  it,"  he  said  to  himself. 

Luckily  he  found  Dr.  Cooper's  victoria  waiting  outside  Mid- 
lothian, and  help  was  soon  sent  up  the  Coney  Banks  to  Becket's 
house.  Monypenny  did  not  go  back — feeling  badly  shaken,  he 
started  on  his  way  home. 

As  he  walked  down  the  narrow,  clanking  passage  to  the  High 
Street,  he  had  a  queer  illusion.  Between  the  high,  shadowed 
walls  of  the  houses  he  could  see  the  street  at  the  bottom  of  the 
steps,  glaring  with  sunshine;  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  men 
and  women  went  to  and  fro  as  in  the  days  of  Marlingate's 


RECONCILIATION  357 

glory,  the  men  in  plaid  trousers  and  white  top-hats,  the 
women  in  crinolines  and  paisley  shawls — they  carried  little 
sunshades  in  red  and  blue  and  green.  He  stared,  and  at  the 
same  time  knew  that  he  did  not  really  see  them. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  steps  they  faded.  There  was  only 
the  sunshine  left,  and  a  baker's  boy  speaking  to  a  dog.  Mony- 
penny  stood  leaning  against  the  hot,  sun-baked  wall  of  the 
house,  breathing  heavily.  The  air  was  full  of  a  dragging, 
stuffy  scent  of  privet  and  horse-chestnut  bloom  ...  he  felt 
faint.  .  .  . 

Then  suddenly  he  saw  the  errand  boy  looking  at  him.  He 
was  a  boy  who  had  just  come  into  the  town  from  a  distant 
village  and  did  not  recognise  the  Mayor. 

"Here  .  .  .  boy  .  .  ."  he  said  faintly,  "help  me  home." 

"Where  do  you  live?"  asked  the  boy.    "I've  got  my  round." 

"Gun  Garden  House — quite  near." 

"Hook  on  to  my  arm,  then,  and  go  steady."  The  boy 
thought  that  perhaps  this  tall,  shaky  old  man  had  been 
drinking. 

Monypenny  preferred,  on  account  of  his  height,  to  lean  on  his 
shoulder.  So  the  baker's  boy  helped  him  home. 

§6 

Becket  lingered  unconscious  a  few  days,  and  then  died,  and 
Monypenny  was  well  enough  to  come  to  his  funeral.  It  was  a 
municipal  affair,  attended  in  state  by  a  forgiving  Mayor  and 
Corporation.  Death,  the  commonest  thing  in  life,  had  as  usual 
failed  to  inspire  the  ordinary  contempt  for  common  things,  and 
had  put  the  borough  into  an  attitude  of  gaping  respect,  even 
for  the  old  obstructionist.  Marlingate  whispered  and  won- 
dered, as  if  this  had  been  the  only  man  who  had  ever  seen 
death. 

The  service  was  read  in  St.  Nicholas  church,  which  the  Rev. 
Somerville  Hunt  had  now  left  some  years  for  his  place  outside 


358  TAMARISK  TOWN 

it.  His  successor  knew  little  about  Becket,  or  indeed  about 
Marlingate,  which  he  saw  as  nothing  more  than  a  rather  dingy 
setting  to  St.  Nicholas  church.  Afterwards,  by  the  graveside, 
the  common  people  nudged  and  whispered,  asking  each  other 
behind  their  hats  who  Becket  was.  "Old  chap  who  lost  his 
money  in  the  town" — "Local  investments" — "Never  invest  your 
money  locally,  old  boy"  .  .  .  "Almighty  God,  with  whom  the 
souls  of  the  faithful,  after  they  are  delivered  from  the  burden 
of  the  flesh,  are  in  joy  and  felicity.  .  .  ." 

Old  Monypenny  stood  stiff  and  erect  beside  the  grave,  watch- 
ing old  Becket  lie  down  beside  Morgan  le  Fay  in  his  last 
mockery  of  possession.  His  children  and  succeeding  genera- 
tions would  read  his  tombstone  and  know  him  as  Morgan's 
husband,  while  the  man  who  had  been  her  love  and  life  slept 
far  away,  beside  another  woman.  No  one  would  ever  know 
that  Morgan  had  been  his.  Even  Becket  had  not  known  it,  in 
spite  of  the  horror  of  that  last  meeting.  He  had  died  exulting 
in  the  thought  of  his  possession,  in  the  fact  that  Morgan  le  Fay 
had  been  his  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  and  of  society,  his  cove- 
nanted property,  no  matter  what  preposterous  title-deeds  de- 
luded and  jealous  claimants  might  bring  forward.  A  little  of 
Becket's  triumph  seemed  to  hang  over  his  grave,  from  which 
seemed  to  come  the  echo  of  his  last  triumphant  words:  "She 
was  my  wife." 

All  his  children  were  there — Arthur,  James,  Charlotte  and 
Louisa — middle-aged  and  unrecognisable  as  the  little  people 
in  Highland  suits  and  long,  frilled  drawers  who,  with  their 
wild  governess,  had  once  plagued  young  Monypenny.  There 
stood  Lindsay,  cold  and  smooth  and  elegant,  a  little  of  the 
New  Woman  even  at  the  graveside,  and  close  to  her  stood  Ted, 
the  prodigal  home  on  sufferance,  looking  tired  and  ashamed. 
Poor  boy! — betrayed  by  his  dreams  just  as  his  father  had 
been  betrayed.  .  .  .  Monypenny  watched  him  sorrowfully.  He 
guessed  now  that  he  was  in  the  stupor  which  had  muffled  his 
own  faculties  before  they  found  the  way  to  liberty  through 


RECONCILIATION  359 

vengeance.  By  vengeance  he  had  purged  his  soul  of  its  error, 
but  what  could  this  boy  do?  He  was  too  weak  for  vengeance; 
besides,  he  had  no  town  to  wreak  it  on — only  a  woman. 

Monypenny  wondered  if  nothing  could  be  done  to  save  him, 
if  he  must  tread  his  path  of  disillusion  to  the  end.  Certainly 
there  was  only  one  person  who  could  save  him,  and  that  was 
Lindsay.  But  she  was  not  likely  to  do  so.  Monypenny 
watched  her  as  she  stood  beside  her  husband.  The  girl  was 
stupid,  complacent  .  .  .  and  yet  she  had  worked  the  spell 
which  all  the  magic  of  Morgan  le  Fay  had  been  unable  to 
accomplish.  She  had  snatched  the  town's  prey  out  of  its  teeth. 
However,  what  did  that  matter  since  she  did  not  know  what 
to  do  with  her  man  now  she  had  got  him?  Lindsay  was  a 
fool — like  Becket.  There  was  no  use  looking  to  her  for  Ted's 
salvation.  She  was  merely  an  instance  of  the  stupid  and  the 
commonplace  succeeding  where  the  fine,  the  free,  the  noble  had 
failed. 

That  afternoon  he  shut  himself  up  in  his  study,  and  thought 
of  his  son.  He  had  not  tried  to  speak  to  him  after  the  funeral, 
and  the  whole  Becket  family  had  gone  home  to  hear  the  reading 
of  the  will.  Monypenny  wondered  a  little  what  Becket  had 
been  able  to  do  for  Ted  and  Lindsay — probably  not  much,  in 
spite  of  his  affection  for  poor  dear  Morgan's  child.  It  struck 
him,  with  a  pleasant  tickle  of  irony,  that  the  best  thing  they 
could  hope  for  was  the  Gun  Garden  mortgage — at  least  the  in- 
terest on  that  was  regularly  paid.  But  that,  he  reflected,  would 
most  likely  go  to  Arthur,  the  eldest  son,  and  Ted  and  Lindsay 
would  have  to  make  shift  with  Becket's  other  investments  in 
Marlingate — which  would  be  very  like  leaving  them  a  treasure 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

If  only  Ted  could  put  his  hands  on  a  little  ready  money, 
thought  his  father  sadly,  he  could  leave  his  dreary  London 
bondage,  which  was  eating  his  soul,  and  try  his  luck  in  a  new 
country.  In  a  flash  this  appeared  to  him  as  Ted's  only  chance. 
If  he  left  England,  he  would  be  definitely  free  of  Marlingate. 


360  TAMARISK  TOWN 

which  was  already  beginning  to  draw  him  back  from  the  short 
distance  he  had  run.  If  he  went  out  to  a  new  country, 
America  or  Australia,  where  new  towns  were  building,  he  might 
be  able  to  reconstruct  his  ambition,  and  in  the  strength  of  that 
rededicate  his  love  ....  But  there'd  be  no  good  selling  him- 
self up  and  emigrating.  For  all  his  ardours,  Ted  was  not  the 
stuff  adventurers  are  made  of.  He  would  need  to  set  up  in 
business  over  there — he  had  already  passed  the  Preliminary 
and  Intermediary  examinations  of  the  R.  I.  B.  A. — and  it 
would  be  an  excellent  thing  if  he  could  go  into  partnership  with 
some  rising  man.  Bah!  what  was  the  use  of  thinking  of  it? 
All  Ted  would  get  would  be,  at  most,  a  fifth  part  of  Becket's 
paltry  estate,  all  knotted  up  with  every  complication  of  Mar- 
lingate  finance. 

Monypenny  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  stared  out  at  the 
drooping  trees  of  the  Town  Park.  Shrill  sounds  of  coquetry 
came  from  its  seclusion,  and  then  were  suddenly  drowned  as 
the  band  began  to  bray  a  selection  from  "The  Belle  of  New 
York."  What  a  damned  noise  1 — it  interrupted  his  train  of 
thought.  He  had  been  thinking  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  if  only  Ted 
could  lay  his  hands  on  some  capital  and  set  up  as  an  architect 
in  some  new  place  overseas.  Well,  why  shouldn't  his  father 
help  him?  Becket  could  do  nothing,  but  Monypenny  still  had 
it  in  his  power  to  raise  the  wind.  After  all,  he  owed  it  to  the 
boy — he  had  brought  him  into  the  world  (a  fact  which  never 
failed  to  overwhelm  him  with  a  sense  of  shame-faced  responsi- 
bility), and  he  had  done  nothing  for  him  during  his  two  years 
of  marriage.  Let  him  help  him  now. 

It  is  true  that  he  could  not  write  him  out  a  cheque  for  a 
few  thousand  pounds — but  there  were  other  ways.  He  could 
mortgage  Gun  Garden  House — that  ought  to  fetch  something; 
he  might  even  have  a  bill  of  sale  on  the  furniture  .  .  .  there 
were  all  sorts  of  ways  open  to  a  man  who  will  face  risks.  What 
did  it  matter  if  he  died  impoverished  and  burdened  with  debts? 
He  need  not  think  of  Fanny — she  had  her  Uncle  Vidler's 


RECONCILIATION  361 

money.  The  only  person  he  had  to  think  of  was  Ted — how 
to  save  him  from  the  inaction  and  disillusion  which  were  de- 
stroying him. 

Even  at  this  moment  a  little  of  the  old  jealousy  revived.  If 
he  helped  Ted  reinstate  his  ambition  he  felt  sure  that  it  would 
lead  to  a  renewal  of  his  love.  His  love  was  failing  him  merely 
because  the  other  things  of  life  had  failed,  and  Lindsay  was 
not  large  enough  to  be  a  man's  all,  as  her  mother  could  so 
easily  and  so  satisfyingly  have  been.  Once  that  Ted  had  found 
himself  in  his  career  he  would  once  more  find  himself  in  his  love. 
Could  Monypenny  bear  it?  Could  he  bear  to  think  of  these 
two  children  triumphing  at  last  where  their  parents  had  failed? 
He  groaned  when  he  thought  that  it  might  have  been  for  him 
and  Morgan  to  go  to  a  new  country  and  re-state  his  ambition 
in  the  light  of  a  love  compared  to  which  the  love  of  Ted  and 
Lindsay  was  but  cloud.  .  .  .  Then  he  thought  that  even  worse 
than  to  see  his  son  enjoying  all  he  had  lost  would  be  to  see 
him  broken  as  he  was  broken.  .  .  .  Perhaps,  after  all,  the  best 
monument  he  could  raise  to  himself  and  Morgan  was  not  the 
ruin  of  the  town  which  had  parted  them,  but  their  love  living 
again  in  their  children,  liberated  and  vindicated. 

There  was  a  curious  pricking  at  the  back  of  his  eyes,  as  if 
the  dried  well  of  his  tears  was  finding  its  spring  again.  It 
seemed  to  him  then  as  if  the  spirit  of  Morgan  le  Fay  pleaded 
with  him  for  their  children,  begging  him  to  make  his  last  sac- 
rifice, for  their  ransom  from  the  fate  which  had  divided  their 
parents,  and  was  now  threatening  to  divide  them  as  surely. 
After  all,  what  did  it  matter  that  they  were  so  different  from 
their  parents  that  their  love  hardly  seemed,  to  his  passionate 
memory,  to  be  love  at  all?  It  was  with  them,  as  it  had  been 
with  himself  and  Morgan,  the  fullest  expression  of  their  being, 
and  if  it  alone  could  not  satisfy  his  son,  that  was  because,  in  the 
paradox  of  things,  ambition  and  not  love  had  been  the  core  of 
his  sensuous,  dreamy  nature,  while  all  the  hardness  of  his 


362  TAMARISK  TOWN 

father's  heart  had  been  built  up  round  the  fiery  passion  which 
had  at  last  consumed  it. 

With  his  ambition  set  free  from  the  weight  of  the  dead  Mar- 
lingate,  Ted's  love  would  also  be  set  free,  and  in  the  new 
country  the  new  town  and  the  new  love  could  exist  together 
in  an  agreement  which  the  old  town  and  the  old  love  had  never 
known  and  could  never  know.  Far  away  in  California  or 
New  South  Wales  there  might  some  day  be  a  new  Marlingate. 
.  .  .  For  a  moment  Manypenny  seemed  to  see  it,  under  the 
thick  blue  skies  of  Capricorn,  washed  by  Pacific  seas,  white 
and  shining,  like  crystal — the  town  that  could  never  quite 
be 

u\_«     *     •     * 

But  perhaps  it  could  be — for  the  young  Monypenny;  his 
dreams  were  not  the  same  as  old  Monypenny's,  always  hanging 
unseizable  before  him  on  the  edge  of  nothingness.  They  could 
be  held  and  realised — they  were  small  enough  for  a  man's  hands 
to  shape  them,  just  as  the  daughter  of  Morgan  le  Fay  was 
tame  enough  for  a  man's  arms  to  hold. 

§7 

The  next  morning  he  set  out  for  the  house  on  the  Coney 
Banks.  During  the  night  he  had  made  up  his  mind  on  yet 
another  point,  and  that  was  to  lay  his  plan  first  before  Lindsay. 
After  all,  the  boy's  liberation  must  come  to  him  through  his 
wife,  and  if  Lindsay  set  herself  against  the  scheme  all  its 
chances  were  spoilt.  He  hoped  that  she  would  not  oppose  it, 
though,  he  told  himself  impatiently,  it  was  quite  possible  that 
she  would  not  see  its  urgency.  She  was  complacent  and  sleek 
as  a  cat — would  she  realise  that  her  husband's  world  was 
wrecked  and  that  he  must  find  a  new  one?  He  shrank  a  little 
from  the  task  of  convincing  her — he  wondered  whether  he 
would  be  tortured  most  by  her  likeness  to  her  mother  or  by  her 
unlikeness,  by  her  calm  self-satisfaction,  her  capable  stupidity, 
or  by  those  errant  flashes  of  lightness,  those  occasional  lifts  of 


RECONCILIATION  363 

manner,  which  marked  her  as  the  daughter  of  Morgan  le  Fay? 

When  he  entered  the  drawing-room,  he  found  her  smoking; 
this  gave  him  an  introductory  sense  of  outrage,  though  she 
threw  away  the  cigarette  and  made  some  half  apology — she 
was  not  New  Woman  enough  to  dare  custom  so  far.  He  had 
asked  for  Mrs.  Monypenny,  but  Lindsay  thought  the  servant 
had  made  a  mistake. 

"Ted's  gone  to  the  station  to  see  off  Lousia  and  James — the 
others  left  last  night." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  Ted,"  said  Monypenny. — "I  came  to 
see  you." 

She  looked  surprised. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  Ted." 

Lindsay  sat  down  and  raised  her  eyebrows  a  little.  What 
could  Monypenny  have  to  say  to  her  about  Ted?  What  did 
he  know  about  him? 

"The  boy's  in  trouble." 

She  gave  him  an  acute,  half-angry  look.  She  disliked  him, 
both  for  his  behaviour  to  Ted  and  his  behaviour  to  her  father. 
She  considered  that  he  was  to  blame  for  Becket's  second  stroke 
— he  must  have  irritated  the  old  man.  However,  for  Ted's 
sake  she  would  not  actually  be  rude  to  him,  so  she  merely 
said: 

"What  makes  you  think  that?'" 

"Well,  it's  natural  for  him  to  be  in  trouble,  isn't  it?  This 
unfortunate  death " 

"You  know  you  don't  mean  that." 

"Does  it  leave  you  any  better  off?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

Lindsay  stiffened. 

"You  had  better  ask  Ted." 

"I  prefer  to  ask  you." 

Really  the  old  man  was  impossible,  but  she  controlled  herself 
with  an  effort — not  invisible. 

"You  ought  to  know  that  my  poor  father  wasn't  in  a  position 
to  do  much  for  us." 


364  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"Why  not?  He  might  have  left  you  the  Gun  Garden  mort- 
gage— it  would  have  brought  you  in  a  few  hundred  a  year,  or 
you  could  have  foreclosed,  and  found  yourself  the  owner  of 
a  promising  estate" — and  Monypenny  grinned. 

"That  goes  to  James" — after  all  he  had  a  right  to  know  who 
was  to  hold  the  mortgage.  Probably  that  was  what  he  had 
come  after. 

"Ah  ...  I  gather  the  rest  of  the  property  was  in  a  bit  of 
a  muddle — local  investments  and  suchlike.  There  are  the 
two  houses  .  .  .  but  the  lease  of  this  one  is  nearly  up." 

"Really,  I  think  you  had  better  see  Ted." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  him  till  I've  laid  my  plans  before  you. 
As  I've  told  you  already,  the  boy  is  in  trouble  and  one  of 
the  causes  of  his  trouble  is  poverty.  I  wanted  to  know  if 
he'd  be  likely  to  get  enough  out  of  Becket's  estate  to  take  him 
abroad,  and  get  him  into  parnership  with  some  good  man  out 
in  Queensland  or  California.  I  gather  from  what  you  say 
that  this  is  impossible;  therefore  I  myself  am  willing  to  advance 
the  money." 

Lindsay  sat  up  and  stared  at  him.  He  had  made  his  speech 
with  some  of  the  quaint  formality  which  used  to  characterise 
him  in  the  days — they  seemed  far  off  and  impossible  now — 
when  she  had  looked  upon  him  as  her  most  distinguished  part- 
ner at  Marlingate  dances. 

"Go  abroad! — leave  England!  But  he's  never  contemplated 
such  a  thing.  Why  should  he?" 

"Because,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  it's  his  only  chance  of  being 
able  to  make  anything  of  his  life  and  his  career — to  say  nothing 
of  his  marriage." 

He  spoke  loudly,  almost  shouted  at  her,  because  her  assur- 
ance was  maddening.  She  drew  herself  up. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  know  perfectly  well.-  Even  you  must  see  a  little  of 
what  he  is  suffering." 

"I  fail  to  understand  you." 


RECONCILIATION  365 

Her  chin  was  lifted,  and  her  half-closed  eyes  gazed  at  him 
with  a  kind  of  insolence.  He  lost  his  self-command,  all  his 
dry  formality — he  felt  he  must  smash  that  casing  of  Becket 
stupidity  in  which  she  had  shut  up  the  spirit  of  Morgan  le  Fay. 
If  only  he  could  find  that  spirit,  he  might  be  able  to  save  his 
son.  He  rose  out  of  his  chair  and  came  towards  her. 

"Lindsay,  you  know  Ted  is  in  trouble.  Don't  pretend  you 
don't,  just  to  baffle  me.  I  know  you  hate  me,  but  you  love 
Ted,  and  for  his  sake  you  must  listen  to  someone  else  who  loves 
him." 

He  had  come  quite  close  to  her,  stooping  over  her  as  she 
sat  on  the  sofa,  and  in  a  sudden  recoil  she  thrust  out  her  arm 
to  keep  him  away,  as  if  she  feared  some  physical  violence.  Her 
complacency  broke. 

"How  dare  you  say  you  love  him — after  the  way  you've 
treated  him?  You've  been  hideously  cruel  and  unjust  to  him. 
You've  been  a  perfect  brute  to  us  all." 

"That's  right — speak  out  at  me.  I  want  to  hear  you  speak 
out.  Then  I  can  speak  out.  I  can't  argue  with  you  when  you 
sit  there  before  me  like  a  crab,  all  claws  and  shell.  You're 
Ted's  wife,  or  else  I  wouldn't  trouble  about  you.  Because 
you're  his  wife  you  can  save  him.  You  must  take  him  right 
away,  out  of  this  country,  away  from  this  wretched  town,  to  a 
place  where  he  can  make  a  fresh  start.  I'll  find  the  money, 
and  he  can  set  himself  up  over  there,  and  make  himself  a 
career,  and  build  a  new  town  if  he  likes.  The  rest  is  in  your 
hands." 

"I'm  glad  you  think  I  can  do  something,"  she  snapped  at 
him. 

"Yes — or,  as  I  said  before,  I  shouldn't  trouble  about  you. 
He  belongs  to  you  now,  not  to  me,  and  I  can't  help  him  unless 
you'll  help  me.  I  want  you  to  persuade  him  to  go — that's  why 
I  came  to  you.  If  I'd  gone  to  him  first  you  might  have  spoiled 
the  whole  thing  by  opposing  it.  You  can  still  twist  him  about." 

"Why  should   I  do  anything  to  help  you?  You've  been 


366  TAMARISK  TOWN 

against  me  all  along — and  now  you're  being  unpardonably 
rude." 

"I'm  not  asking  you  to  help  me — I'm  asking  you  to  help 
him.  You  love  him,  don't  you?" 

She  turned  red. 

"Yes — and  he  loves  you.  But  your  love  is  being  spoiled 
because  it  won't  hold  all  he's  trying  to  put  into  it.  You  see, 
he  wants  so  much — so  much  more  than  you.  No,  I'm  not 
being  rude  again,  I'm  only  trying  to  explain  things  to  you. 
The  more  a  man  wants  a  woman  the  more  he  wants  to  have 
more  than  just  herself,  but  a  woman  never  understands  that. 
She  always  thinks  she  can  fill  a  man's  life,  take  the  place  of  his 
career,  self-respect,  ambition,  anything  else  he  may  happen  to 
want  that  isn't  her.  Why,  even  your  mother  ..." 

"What  about  my  mother?" 

"Wasn't  quite  everything  to  your  father,  I  suppose." 

"I  don't  see  what  that's  got  to  do  with  it.  Still  I  don't 
mind  owning  to  you  that  I  think  Ted  wants  a  change  of  some 
sort — some  new  interests.  London  doesn't  suit  him — he  wants 
sea  air.  But  why  can't  you  set  him  up  somewhere  in  England? 
Why  do  you  want  us  to  cut  all  our  ties  and  go  half  across  the 
world?" 

"Because,  for  one  thing,  England's  an  old  country,  all  built 
over,  and  no  place  for  a  struggling  architect.  For  another,  I 
want  him  to  get  away  from  Marlingate." 

"But  we'd  never  dream  of  settling  down  in  Marlingate." 

"No — but  anywhere  in  England  would  be  too  close  to  Mar- 
lingate for  Ted.  The  town's  got  him." 

"What  do  you  mean?" — she  remembered  uneasily  some 
doubts  her  husband  had  confided  to  her  nearly  a  year  ago  as 
to  his  father's  sanity. 

"As  long  as  he's  within  reach  of  Marlingate  he'll  always  be 
hankering  after  it  and  scheming  for  it — though  even  if  I  died 
tomorrow  it  would  be  too  late  for  him  to  undo  my  work." 

Lindsay's  uneasiness  grew. 


RECONCILIATION  367 

"Don't  let's  talk  about  Marlingate,"  she  said  nervously. 
"Perhaps  it's  best,  as  you  say,  for  Ted  to  make  a  fresh  start 
in  a  new  country.  After  all,  there  aren't  many  openings  for 
an  ambitious  man  over  here." 

"You're  quite  right.  But  probably  it'll  take  some  persua- 
sion to  make  him  go.  He  won't  like, taking  money  from  me 
for  one  thing,  but  you'll  have  to  get  him  over  that." 

"We'll  take  it  as  a  loan,  of  course." 

"Just  as  you  like — as  long  as  you  make  him  agree." 

"You  seem  anxious  to  see  the  last  of  us" — a  little  of  her 
anger  revived,  as  pity  and  fear  abated. 

"You  can  imagine  how  anxious  I  am  to  see  the  last  of  my 
only  son,  now  my  old  age  is  beginning  and  probably  my  death 
is  not  far  off." 

Lindsay  was  vexed  with  herself  because  she  felt  rebuked. 
But  she  told  herself  that  it  was  his  manner  more  than  his 
words.  The  poor  old  chap,  who  used  to  be  so  fine,  was  break- 
ing up.  He  had  now  gone  back  to  his  chair,  and  sat  with  his 
hands  folded  on  his  knees,  in  a  tired  attitude  uncommon  to  him, 

"But  he  must  go  away,"  he  insisted — "it's  his  only  chance. 
You  know  he's  in  trouble — you  see  it  yourself  and  you  worry 
over  it  in  secret,  though  you're  too  proud  to  tell  me.  Very 
well,  his  salvation  rests  with  you,  and  you're  your  mother's 
daughter." 

"That's  the  second  time  you've  spoken  of  my  mother.  Did 
you  know  her  well?" 

"I  should  never  dare  say  that." 

"People  tell  me  I'm  very  like  her." 

"Be  assured — you  are  not  in  the  least  like  her.  But  I  think 
there's  enough  of  her  in  you  to  save  my  son.  Good-bye." 

He  stood  up  and  held  out  his  hand.  Lindsay  put  her  own 
into  it,  feeling  rather  at  a  loss. 

"I'll  speak  to  Ted,  and  hear  what  he  has  to  say  to  it." 

"Thank  you." 

He  would  not  let  her  come  to  the  front  door  with  him,  but 


368  TAMARISK  TOWN 

she  heard  him  go  down  the  stairs  and  then  down  the  asphalt 
walk  to  the  gate.  A  minute  or  two  later  she  heard  his  feet 
on  the  Coney  Bank  steps,  solemnly  clanking  down  into  the 
town.  His  footsteps  struck  a  hollow  sound  out  of  the  tall 
houses — clank,  clank,  clank,  they  went,  growing  gradually 
fainter,  and  as  they  died  away  she  found  herself  listening  for 
them  with  an  unaccountable  sense  of  longing  and  regret.  .  .  . 

§8 

They  were  silent  now — the  world  seemed  to  hang  empty, 
and  she  stood  in  a  sort  of  despair.  She  rated  herself  for  a 
fool,  and  yet  she  could  not  shake  off  that  peculiar  feeling  as  of  a 
thing  ended.  Then  suddenly  her  heart  leapt,  for  feet  sounded 
again  on  the  Coney  Bank  steps,  drawing  nearer.  Perhaps  it 
was  Ted  coming  home — it  might  be  anyone — no  one — yes,  it 
was  Ted.  She  saw  him  now,  coming  round  the  corner  by  Mid- 
lothian. She  waved  to  him  out  of  the  window,  then  ran  down 
to  the  hall  door  to  meet  him. 

"Oh,  Ted,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come  back!" 

He  was  surprised.  It  was  a  long  time  since  his  intercourse 
with  Lindsay  had  been  ruffled  by  any  expressed  emotion. 

"What  is  it,  old  girl?    Been  feeling  lonely?" 

"No — I've  had  your  father  here.  Only  I'm  so  glad  you've 
come  back.  Oh,  Ted  .  .  ." 

She  held  out  her  arms,  and  as  she  did  so,  that  strange,  laugh- 
ing, enticing  look  came  into  her  eyes,  as  it  had  not  come  since 
their  marriage.  Her  face  was  lit  up  with  that  queer,  flying 
gleam,  like  sunshine  in  wind,  and  his  heart  melted  suddenly. 
With  a  little  tender  noise  in  his  throat,  he  clasped  her  to  him, 
caressing  her  in  happiness  and  love  and  reconciliation.  The 
door  slammed  behind  them,  shutting  out  the  aching  noon,  and 
the  town  that  had  divided  them. 


RECONCILIATION  369 

§9 

A  little  to  Lindsay's  surprise,  Ted  grasped  almost  eagerly 
at  his  father's  offer.  For  a  long  time  he  had  been  feeling  him- 
self bound  to  a  dead  thing,  the  priest  of  a  rejected  sacrifice, 
and  he  saw  in  this  new  beginning  his  only  chance  of  escape 
from  a  sterile  bondage  of  regrets.  Some  months  ago  it  had 
struck  him  that  the  best  thing  he  could  do  was  to  emigrate, 
but  he  had  been  hampered  by  the  chains  of  Becket  and  by  his 
own  reluctance  to  take  Lindsay  into  the  poverty  of  a  strange 
land.  Now  both  his  hindrances  were  removed. 

"Egad!  But  it's  infernally  generous  of  the  old  man,"  he 
said  to  his  wife. 

"I  think  he  wants  to  get  rid  of  us,"  said  Lindsay.    • 

"Very  likely — still,  he  could  have  done  it  cheaper.  I  wonder 
how  he's  got  the  money — he  must  have  been  hit  as  well  as  your 
father — I  hardly  like  to  take  it  from  him." 

"We  can  pay  it  back.  Besides,  I  really  consider  he  owes  us 
something.  He's  done  nothing  for  us  up  till  now,  remember." 

"I  don't  think  we  can  claim  anything.  We  married  against 
his  wishes." 

"Yes,  that's  true.  But  do  you  know  that  he  spoke  rather 
nicely  this  morning  about  our  marriage?  He — he — "  she  hes- 
itated— "he  seemed  to  understand  more  than  I  ever  thought  he 
would." 

"Hang  it  all,  Lindsay!    He's  been  jolly  decent." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  he  has — but  I  can't  quite  forgive  him,  all 
the  same.  The  way  he's  treated  you — and  my  poor  old  father." 

"I  agree  that  there  he  behaved  unpardonably.  But  I'm  sorry 
for  him,  you  know — he's  in  a  bad  way  .  .  .  breaking  up." 

"I'm  afraid  so.  He  talked  a  little  to  me  as  he  talked  to  you — 
that  time  you  told  me  of — making  out  he'd  ruined  Marlin- 
gate." 

"He  has  ruined  it — but  he  wants  us  to  believe  he's  done  it 
on  purpose." 


370  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"Perhaps  it's  only  bluff — he  doesn't  want  us  to  think  him  a 
bungler." 

Ted  shook  his  head. 

"It's  not  bluff — his  mind's  gone  on  that  point;  the  worry 
and  all  that  has  driven  him  quite  off  his  hook.  Otherwise 
he's  perfectly  rational,  I  should  say.  But  I'm  damned  sorry 
for  him — boxed  up  with  that  monstrous  idea." 

"It  is  monstrous!" 

That  evening  Ted  went  up  to  see  his  father  at  Gun  Garden 
House,  and  spent  some  hours  shut  up  with  him  in  his  study. 
Monypenny  was  not  so  surprised  as  Lindsay  at  his  son's  per- 
suasion. He  knew  what  desperate  roads  a  man  will  take  to 
liberty,  and,  after  all,  this  road  he  opened  to  Ted  was  wider 
and  smoother  than  any  his  own  feet  had  trodden.  He  won- 
dered a  little  why  life  seemed  so  willing  to  forgive  this  boy 
and  to  take  him  back  into  favour,  while  he  himself  had  found 
no  place  of  repentance  though  he  sought  it  carefully  with 

tears He  did  not  know  that  life  seldom  forgives  her 

stronger  sons  when  they  fall  away. 

Ted  went  back  to  Lindsay  feeling  happier  and  more  hope- 
ful than  he  had  felt  for  long  months.  It  is  true  that  the  new 
Marlingate  which  his  father  spoke  of  would  never  be  the 
same  as  the  old — nothing  would  be  able  to  give  back  to  young 
Monypenny  all  the  joy  he  used  to  feel  in  the  old  red  streets, 
that  sense  of  ancient  mystery  which  used  to  inspire  his  most 
modern  musings.  But  this  substitute  which  his  father  offered 
was  now  the  only  possible  hope.  At  least,  once  more  he  had 
ambition,  and  ambition  seemed  to  pour  like  a  mighty  wind 
into  his  love,  turning  the  sails  of  that  mysterious  mill  which 
had  so  long  flopped  in  the  calms  of  his  disappointment  and 
stagnation.  Once  more  the  bread  of  life  was  to  be  ground. 

The  next  day  he  took  Lindsay  back  to  London,  but  only  till 
he  had  finished  his  time  at  Britton  and  Giles.  His  articles  ex- 
pired in  September,  and  it  was  settled  that  in  the  same  month 
he  should  start  for  Los  Angeles.  This  destination  was  fixed 


RECONCILIATION  371 

on  after  much  discussion  and  correspondence,  and  finally  some 
consultations  between  Monypenny  and  a  son  of  Lusted's,  who 
had  emigrated  to  the  States  twenty  years  ago,  and  had  set  up 
as  a  builder  in  Sacramento.  He  came  home  that  summer  to 
see  his  old  parents,  and  told  wonderful  tales  of  the  growing 
West,  of  the  mushroom  towns  that  shot  up  their  palaces  on 
the  Pacific  coast.  If  young  Monypenny  wanted  an  opening, 
there  it  was — he  could  give  him  an  introduction  to  a  rising 
chap  in  Bennetville,  fifty  miles  north  of  Los  Angeles.  Goshl 
he'd  be  planning  cities  in  a  few  years'  time — the  architects 
couldn't  work  quick  enough  for  the  builders.  And  they  had 
taste,  too,  those  Yanks — nothing  but  white  palaces  behind 
groves  of  palm  trees  .  .  .  not  the  mess  poor  old  Pa  makes 
down  here  and  calls  Building  Houses.  Monypenny's  eyes 
gleamed  at  the  thought  of  a  Marine  Parade  built  of  white  pal- 
aces behind  a  grove  of  palm-trees.  .  .  . 

Ted  and  Lindsay  spent  their  last  days  in  England  at  Gun 
Garden  House.  Here  Lindsay  did  her  unsuccessful  best  to 
be  cordial  to  her  father-in-law,  while  Ted  made  his  farewells 
local  and  personal.  Their  hearts  belonged  already  to  the  fu- 
ture. Even  Ted's  was  beginning  to  lose  its  response  to  the 
soiled  beauties  of  Marlingate — and  when  at  last  the  slow 
South  Eastern  train  dragged  out  of  the  station  he  almost  felt 
as  if  he  was  leaving  just  a  common,  unprosperous  seaside 
town,  an  illusion  which  had  tried  to  hold  him,  but  had  failed, 
tearing  only  a  piece  off  his  garment. 

§10 

Marlingate  was  beginning  to  empty  itself.  The  visitors, 
mostly  office  men  with  their  families,  or  tradesmen  and  small 
professionals  with  only  a  few  weeks  to  spare,  had  gone  back 
to  the  desks  and  the  counters  which  never  let  them  stop  away 
very  long.  However,  the  season  was  not  quite  over,  for  one 
or  two  big  excursions  were  due  before  the  end  of  the  month. 


372  TAMARISK  TOWN 

The  first  of  them  was  fixed  for  the  next  day,  when  a  large  firm 
of  tin-box  makers  was  sending  down  two  train-loads  of  its  em- 
ployes for  their  annual  beano. 

These  people  came  early  in  the  morning;  they  must  have 
left  their  beds  at  four  to  have  arrived  in  Marlingate  before 
seven.  While  breakfast  was  in  progress  at  Gun  Garden  House, 
a  few  of  them  straggled  up  past  the  windows,  seeking  the  shade 
of  the  Town  Park.  These  were  mostly  women,  already  tired 
after  their  long,  close-packed  journey,  and  untempted  by  the 
public  house  in  Station  Road  or  by  the  remoter  signs  of  the 
New  Moon  and  the  Maidenhood. 

It  was  a  hot,  hazy  September  day,  and  there  was  a  smell 
of  corn-dust  in  the  town,  for  the  faint  wind  that  occasionally 
moved  the  heavy,  wilted  foliage  of  the  Town  Park,  blew  from 
inland,  bringing  scents  of  dusty  lanes  and  stripping  hop-vines. 
The  sea-smell  scarcely  came  further  inshore  than  the  Parade, 
where  the  sun  baked  and  blistered  the  seats  and  the  peeling 
paint  on  the  houses.  The  trippers  lay  together  in  shoals  on 
the  hot  shingle,  languidly  making  love,  or  throwing  stones  into 
the  sea,  or  listening  to  the  tired  singing  of  a  troupe  of  minstrels 
which  had  lingered  on  after  the  usual  visitors  were  gone,  in  the 
hope  of  some  pickings  from  these  droves  that  still  occasional- 
ly stampeded  the  town.  Others  sat  and  lolled  and  slept  on  the 
seats,  others  lay  and  ate  plums  and  bananas  in  the  Town 
Park,  others  swung  up  and  down  the  Parade,  or  up  and  down 
the  High  Street,  their  arms  linked  and  their  hats  on  their  ears, 
singing  "Daisy,  Daisy,"  "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay,"  and  "The 
Man  Who  Broke  the  Bank  at  Monte  Carlo." 

These  were  the  typical  activities  of  a  typical  crowd,  driving 
the  stray,  scared  nursemaids  off  the  beach,  and  even  out  of 
the  refuges  of  the  Marine  Gardens.  But  today  the  heat  ag- 
gravated the  brutalities  of  the  type,  for  heat  was  the  genera- 
tor both  of  ill-humour  and  thirst.  The  public-houses  \vere 
soon  full — each  opened  bar-door  showed  a  tight  packing  of 


RECONCILIATION  373 

backs.  Drink  sometimes  led  to  sleep,  but  most  often  to  more 
drink. 

That  morning  Monypenny,  as  it  rarely  happened,  took 
Fanny  for  an  airing.  The  old  couple  passed  down  the  High 
Street,  he  in  his  staid  morning  clothes,  she  in  a  jetted  bonnet 
and  cape,  and  leaning  on  his  arm. 

"The  town  looks  very  full  today,  my  love." 

"Yes — there's  an  excursion  from  Erith." 

"They  seem  rather  an  inferior  class  of  people." 

"They  are  factory  hands,  and  naturally  a  bit  rough." 

"  'Ullo,  old  boy!  Where  did  you  get  that  'at?"  a  voice 
called  up  to  the  pavement  from  the  furrow  of  the  street. 

"Don't  you  think  it's  rather  a  pity  to  let  such  people  into 
the  town?"  said  Fanny,  wincing.  "Mrs.  Bowerman  was  saying 
only  the  other  day  that  she  doesn't  like  the  thought  of  leav- 
ing her  nurse  and  children  alone  here,  as  she  usually  does  when 
she  goes  back  to  London." 

"My  dear,  I  know  what  I'm  doing." 

"Of  course,  my  love,"  said  Fanny  mildly. 

Monypenny  took  her  into  the  pastry-cook's  at  the  corner  of 
the  High  Street,  and  they  each  had  a  biscuit  and  a  glass  of 
sherry,  as  their  custom  was  when  out  together.  The  place 
was  now  crowded  with  trippers,  stuffing  themselves  with  food 
and  shouting  at  one  another.  Fanny  and  Monypenny  could 
not  even  keep  their  table  to  themselves;  two  girls  with  big, 
feathered  hats  sat  down  with  them,  and  plagued  them  with  gig- 
gling impertinences.  Then  a  woman  at  a  table  near  them 
was  sick,  and  they  had  to  go  out,  for  Fanny  was  quite  upset. 
As  for  Monypenny,  he  was  most  unreasonably  furious  at  all 
this  rowdiness  and  indecorum.  He  forgot  that  it  was  mere- 
ly the  result  of  his  own  long  scheming,  and  became  irritable 
and  abusive  during  his  progress  up  the  High  Street,  which, 
outside  the  Maidenhood,  was  blocked  with  drunken  crowds, 
trying  to  get  into  the  bar. 


374  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"Confound  you!  Let  me  pass!"  he  said,  raising  his  stick, 
while  Fanny  clung  trembling  to  his  arm. 

One  man  grew  threatening  at  this  demeanour,  and  squared 
his  fists  right  up  to  the  stern,  unterrified  old  face.  Fanny 
screamed,  but  someone  more  good  natured  in  the  crowd  cried : 

"  'Ere,  boys,  mike  room  fer  Gawd  Awmighty's  brother 
'Grace,"  and  with  loud  shrieks  of  laughter  and  derision  the 
wedge  of  drinkers  and  quarrellers  split,  and  the  old  pair  walked 
through. 

§n 

There  was  to  be  a  Town  Council  meeting  that  afternoon, 
and  soon  after  luncheon  Monypenny  had  to  go  back  to  the 
High  Street,  where  he  found  the  uproar  worse  than  ever.  There 
were  not  enough  public  houses  in  Marlingate  to  accommodate 
this  enormous  crowd,  which  was  largely  made  up  of  habitual 
drinkers,  and  of  those  made  thirsty  by  the  weather.  Only  a 
limited  proportion  of  it  could  squeeze  into  the  bars,  and  while 
the  few  stood  and  drank  the  many  tried  to  force  their  way  in 
and  turn  out  the  few.  When  one  man,  disgusted  and  stifled, 
came  elbowing  his  way  out,  a  dozen  fought  to  take  his  place, 
and  there  was  a  series  of  rushes  from  the  street.  Moreover, 
the  bored  loungers  on  the  beach  and  the  Parade  heard  that 
there  was  a  shindy  in  the  High  Street,  and,  seeking  diversion, 
rolled  up  in  their  dozens,  and  took  sides  out  of  sheer  animal 
love  of  fighting.  The  result  was  that  at  one  time  Monypenny 
thought  he  would  never  reach  the  Town  Hall.  The  Maiden- 
hood was  nearly  opposite  it,  and  as  he  drew  near  he  heard  the 
shivering  music  of  broken  glass.  Then  a  great  yell  went  up 
from  the  crowd.  The  Maidenhood  was  throwing  out  its  drunks. 
Then  another  yell  rose — the  Maidenhood  was  putting  up  its 
shutters.  There  was  a  rush  towards  the  entrance,  men  were 
swept  off  the  high  pavement  into  the  street,  where  they  fell 
on  those  struggling  beneath;  there  were  loud  screams  and 
curses,  more  blows,  more  broken  glass — but  in  the  ebbing  of  the 


RECONCILIATION  375 

tide  Monypenny  was  able  to  slither  ungracefully  into  his  Town 
Hall. 

Upstairs  in  the  Council  Chamber  he  found  a  knock-kneed 
Pelham,  supported  by  his  son  Robert,  engaged  in  a  fantasia 
on  the  word  'Shocking.'  They  seemed  to  have  lost  all  other 
powers  of  speech.  Two  minutes  later  Lewnes  joined  them,  his 
face  red  and  damp,  and  the  hairs  that  were  usually  trained 
across  his  crown  hanging  limply  on  his  collar.  Then  Mark 
Boas,  the  Town  Clerk,  came  in  with  a  large  cake  of  dirt  flat- 
tened between  his  shoulders. 

"What's  to  be  done?"  cried  Lewnes,  throwing  himself  help- 
lessly into  the  Mayoral  chair — "why  don't  the  police  do  some- 
thing?" 

"They're  doing  their  best,"  said  Boas,  "but  we  haven't  got 
enough  of  'em." 

"How  many  of  these  ruffians  are  there  in  the  town?" 

"Perhaps  a  thousand." 

"Who  the  devil  allowed  them  to  swamp  us  like  this? — Who 
let  'em  come?" 

Nobody  spoke,  then  Boas  mentioned  that  a  proper  appli- 
cation had  been  received  from  Turner  Brothers  through  the 
South  Eastern  Railway,  and  had  been  agreed  to  by  the  Town 
Committee. 

"But  we  never  bargained  for  this  gang.  Why  doesn't  the 
railway  take  them  back  again?  When  are  they  due  to  leave?" 

"They're  supposed  to  leave  in  two  special  trains  starting  at 
eight  and  at  eight-fifteen." 

"I'll  telephone  to  the  police-station,"  said  Monypenny. 

The  Town  Hall  had  recently  been  equipped  with  a  tele- 
phone, and  the  Chief  Inspector  of  Marlingate  Police  was  soon 
an  indistinct  member  of  the  discussion.  He  would  do  his  best. 
He  would  send  two  mounted  men.  He  had  recommended  all 
the  public-houses  to  close. 

"Two  mounted  men!  A  lot  of  good  they'll  do!"  groaned 
Lewnes. 


376  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"Better  send  for  the  military,"  said  Robert  Pelham. 

"From  Bulverhythe?" 

"Yes.    They  might  put  the  fear  of  God  into  these  beasts/' 

"Nonsense!"  said  Monypenny  briskly — "we  haven't  come  to 
that  yet.  They'll  stop  when  they're  tired." 

They  showed  no  signs  of  tiring  yet.  The  High  Street,  with 
its  lofty  pavements  and  troughed  roadway,  made  an  ideal  bat- 
tle-ground. Soon  the  pavement  was  being  manned  by  the  de- 
fenders of  the  Maidenhood,  the  staff  of  Tutts,  helped  by 
a  few  fighting  citizens,  while  the  trippers  attacked  from  the 
fosse  of  the  street,  or  more  dangerously  threw  bottles  from  the 
pavement  opposite.  Glass  was  shivering  all  down  the  street, 
and  the  Maidenhood  had  not  a  window  left. 

The  borough  fathers  stood  staring  down  forlornly  at  their 
demoniac  town,  and  as  they  stared  were  joined  by  Lusted  and 
two  younger  Councillors,  Smith  and  Ellam.  The  two  latter 
were  half-inclined  to  joke,  dusting  the  grime  of  conflict  off 
their  clothes,  and  talking  of  kicks  they  had  given  the  "beasts." 
Lusted  was  literally  in  tears.  He  stood  in  a  corner  of 
the  Council  Room  and  sobbed  into  a  torn  but  cleanly  hand- 
kerchief. 

"Egad,  gentlemen!  We'd  better  start  the  meeting,"  said 
Monypenny,  swinging  round  from  the  window.  "No  use  wait- 
ing for  anyone  else;  we're  half  an  hour  overdue  as  things  are." 

The  Town  Council  was  astonished  into  agreement;  it  shuf- 
fled sheepishly  into  its  seats,  and  sat  meekly  while  Mark  Boas 
read  the  minutes  to  an  accompaniment  of  screams  and 
falling  glass.  No  one  listened  particularly,  and  before  he  had 
finished  a  stone  came  spinning  through  the  sacred  windows  of 
the  Town  Hall,  scattering  the  borough  lions  and  Constans 
Fidei  in  shivers  on  the  floor.  This  broke  the  spell  of  Mony- 
penny's  eye,  and  the  Town  Council  stampeded. 

"Where  are  the  police?"  shrieked  Robert  Pelham. 

"This  is  shocking — truly  shocking!"  wailed  his  father. 

"Send  for  the  military!"  cried  Robert  Pelham. 


RECONCILIATION  377 

"It's  your  doing!"  shouted  Lusted  to  Lewnes. 

"That's  right— blame  me— blame  anybody;  so's  it's  not 
yourself." 

"Gentlemen,  gentlemen,"  said  Monypenny — "this  is  a  meet- 
ing— kindly  address  the  chair." 

"Well,-  I  ask  you  if  it  ain't  his  fault?"  cried  Lusted  hys- 
terically. "It's  him  who  was  for  bringing  these  people  down 
and  popperalising  the  town  and  all  that — you  scoundrel!" 

"Order!— order!" 

"Scoundrel  yourself.    Who  built  the  rotten  'ouses?" 

"Will  you  address  the  chair?" 

"Who  put  the  money  in  his  own  pocket,  and  never  invested 
it  and  lost  it  like  poor,  decent  people?" 

"There  is  the  chair!" 

"You  dirty  jerry-builder!" 

"Chair!" 

"Order!     Order!" 

There  was  now  almost  as  much  uproar  inside  the  Council 
Chamber  as  outside  it.  Lewnes  and  Lusted  were  being  for- 
cibly withheld  from  jumping  at  each  others'  throats. 
Monypenny  stood  up  and  uttered  words  of  command  that 
were  for  the  first  time  unheeded.  Seeing  the  uselessness  of 
interference  he  walked  over  to  the  window  and  looked  out 
again. 

The  fight  was  as  fierce  as  ever.  Two  mounted  policemen 
were  powerless  to  control  it,  though  they  had  drawn  their 
truncheons,  as  had  also  the  foot  police.  More  and  more  cit- 
izens were  being  involved.  Monypenny  saw  Henderson,  the 
High  Street  butcher,  backed  against  the  door  of  the  Maiden- 
hood, and  young  Dunk  from  the  Furniture  Emporium,  also  a 
couple  of  clerks  from  Lewnes'  old  bank,  and  others.  Only  the 
fishermen  kept  aloof.  There  was  not  a  single  tanfrock  in  the 
crowd.  They  were  probably  mending  their  nets  on  the  Stade 
as  peacefully  as  ever. 

The  crashing  in  of  the  window  next  him,  with  the  stained 


378  TAMARISK  TOWN 

glass  effigy  of  a  Tudor  Mayor,  made  Monypenny  withdraw 
hastily  into  the  room.  Here  he  found  that  the  battle  had  sub- 
sided, and  Lewnes  was  asking  for  a  glass  of  water.  The  Town 
Clerk  came  up  to  the  Mayor  and  whispered  to  him. 

"You'd  better  send  for  the  military.  The  police  can  do  noth- 
ing." 

Monypenny  hesitated. 

"They'll  set  the  whole  place  on  fire  if  we  don't  do  some- 
thing," continued  Boas.  "Look!  They've  got  into  the  Maid- 
enhood!" 

There  was  a  loud  triumphant  yell  from  the  street,  and  the 
crashing  of  doors,  with  some  groans  and  shrieks  of  pain.  At 
the  same  moment  the  telephone  bell  rang. 

It  was  the  chief  inspector.  They  must  have  help.  He  could 
do  nothing  with  this  mob.  Would  his  worship  send  over  to 
Bulverhythe  for  the  soldiers? — just  to  frighten  them,  you 
know.  Yes,  the  South  Eastern  would  undertake  to  remove 
them  after  the  five-thirty  London  express  had  gone  out. 

He  rang  off,  and  Monypenny  immediately  asked  the  ex- 
change for  the  barracks  at  Bulverhythe.  Hullo!  Yes  .  .  . 
Colonel  Andrews  would  send  over  a  small  detachment?  .  .  . 
oh,  quite  small  .  .  .  more  could  follow?  ...  he  hoped  it 
wouldn't  be  necessary  .  .  .  just  to  frighten  them,  you  know. 

§12 

The  detachment  arrived  an  hour  later,  in  charge  of  an  of- 
ficer. It  lined  up  outside  the  Town  Hall,  while  the  officer  came 
up  to  the  Council  Chamber.  During  that  hour  a  good  deal 
had  happened;  the  Maidenhood  had  been  stormed  and  taken 
by  the  enemy,  who  were  now  diversely  engaged  in  drinking  up 
its  cellars  and  tearing  the  tiles  off  its  roof.  These  they  flung 
mostly  at  the  Town  Hall,  and  the  floor  of  the  Council  Cham- 
ber was  spangled  with  a  broken  rainbow  of  coloured  glass. 
The  arrival  of  the  soldiers  put  the  fear  of  God  into  some  of 


RECONCILIATION  379 

the  rioters,  who  forthwith  returned  to  the  innocence  of  the  Pa- 
rade, but  the  majority  were  fired  by  the  courage  of  the  Maid- 
enhood cellars,  and  a  good  many  were  unable  to  fight  their 
way  out  of  the  mass  in  which  they  were  wedged.  Several  of 
those  who  remained  had  their  passions  roused  to  even  uglier 
violence  by  the  sight  of  the  military.  Howls,  groans  and  curses 
greeted  the  soldiers  as  they  filed  along  the  Town  Hall  wall  and 
lined  up  facing  the  Maidenhood — and  a  shower  of  tiles,  stones 
and  bottle-necks  crashed  through  the  municipal  windows,  so 
that  when  Captain  Barnes  came  in  he  found  the  borough  fa- 
thers blotted  in  undignified  attitudes  in  the  corners  of  the  room. 

A  tall,  pale  old  man  came  forward,  with  a  manner  that  was 
still  half  stately. 

"Captain  Barnes? — I  am  the  Mayor." 

"Good  evening,  Mayor.  You're  having  a  bit  of  a  picnic  in 
your  town." 

"I'm  very  sorry  to  trouble  you,  Captain,  but  things  have  got 
a  little  out  of  hand.  We  have  done  all  we  could,  but  were 
obliged  to  come  to  you." 

"Oh,  don't  apologise.  I  hope  we'll  be  able  to  help  you.  I 
thought  things  quieted  down  a  little  at  the  sight  of  us." 

"They  seem  pretty  bad  again  now." 

"Yes — I'm  afraid  there's  a  lot  of  drink  about.  However, 
when  it  actually  comes  to  lifting  our  rifles " 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  you  to  fire  on  them." 

Monypenny  realised  that  he  did  not  want  any  murder  done 
in  his  town. 

"I  don't  suppose  it'll  come  to  that — and  we'll  fire  over  their 
heads,  anyway.  But  you'll  have  to  read  the  Riot  Act  first." 

"I  see.    Give  them  a  chance  of  dispersing  peaceably?" 

"Yes.    Are  many  of  your  own  people  among  them?" 

"I'm  afraid  so.  A  lot  came  out  to  help  Tutt  at  the  Maid- 
enhood." 

"Better  not  lose  any  time,  your  worship,"  said  Boas,  com- 


380  TAMARISK  TOWN 

ing  forward.  "Read  'em  the  Act,  and  then,  if  they  won't  dis- 
perse, leave  things  to  Captain  Barnes." 

Monypenny  stood  uncertainly  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  He 
now  realised  that  his  whole  heart  was  against  this.  He  saw 
that  it  would  be  the  crowning  work  of  his  destruction — "the 
Marlingate  riots.  .  .  ."  But  he  could  not  bear  the  thought 
of  it,  and  of  his  share  in  it.  He  seemed  to  see  himself  long 
years  ago,  standing  on  the  Marine  Parade,  and  looking  down 
on  the  beach,  on  all  the  happy  innocent  people  who  were  en- 
joying his  town,  while  he  beamed  down  on  them  with  pater- 
nal pride.  .  .  .  And  now.  ...  He  saw  Boas  bring  up  his 
robes  of  office,  his  scarlet  cloak  and  cocked  hat,  while  some- 
one thrust  a  paper  into  his  hand.  He  looked  at  it  and  saw 
"Our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King  ..."  then  a  stone  crashed 
through  the  Jubilee  window,  and  the  Aldermen  and  Councillors, 
who  had  begun  to  gather  round  him,  scattered  back  into  their 
corners. 

"Where  can  he  read  it  from?"  asked  Captain  Barnes. 

The  porch  of  the  Town  Hall  was  between  the  two  windows, 
backed  by  an  enormous  effigy  of  the  borough  arms.  It  was 
reached  from  the  side  of  the  right  hand  oriel,  and  on  its  bal- 
cony successful  Parliamentary  candidates  had  often  stood  in 
response  to  cheers.  Robert  Pelham  suggested  the  porch  as 
more  imposing  than  the  window. 

"He'll  never  be  heard  from  the  window,"  said  Boas. 

"The  porch  is  dangerous,"  said  Lewnes. 

"And  what  about  the  window?" 

"I'll  accompany  his  worship,"  said  Captain  Barnes. 

"No,  I'd  rather  go  alone,"  Monypenny  broke  out  of  a  strange 
spell  of  dumbness — "I  don't  want  to  flourish  the  military  at 
them.  You'd  better  be  down  below  with  your  men.  I'll  be  all 
right.  They  won't  try  to  damage  me,  and  if  they  do,  it'll  be 
only  pot  shots — just  as  likely  to  hit  you  as  me,"  and  he  turned 
rather  maliciously  on  the  Town  Council. 

Captain  Barnes  tried  to  press  his  point,  backed  by  one  or 


RECONCILIATION  38 1 

two  Councillors,  but  the  Mayor  was  firm,  and  in  the  end  the 
officer  went  down  to  join  his  men,  while  Monypenny,  still 
strangely  reluctant,  moved  towards  the  window. 

"Stand  back,"  he  said  to  the  Council,  "keep  away  from  the 
broken  glass." 

He  had  not  much  need  to  speak,  for  Aldermen  and  Coun- 
cillors were  already  hugging  the  remoter  wall.  Only  Lewnes 
stood  uncertain  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

"I'm  coming  with  you,  Mayor,"  he  said  in  a  quavering  but 
resolute  voice. 

"Nonsense — stop  where  you  are.  I'll  work  'em  better  alone" 
— and  Lewnes  fell  back,  trying  not  to  look  relieved. 

There  was  hardly  a  shiver  of  glass  left  in  the  oriel,  so  Mony- 
penny stepped  easily  through  it,  and  stood  on  'the  flat  roof  of 
the  porch. 

§13 

For  a  moment  after  he  went  out  there  was  a  lull,  as  if  the 
crowd  had  been  impressed,  in  spite  of  itself,  by  the  tall  old 
figure  in  black  and  scarlet,  with  its  cocked  hat  and  Mayoral 
chain.  But  the  next  minute  the  uproar  burst  out  again.  Mony- 
penny stood  silent,  staring  down  at  the  sea  of  furious 
faces,  lifted  arms,  and  whirling  missiles  of  mud  and  tiles.  Op- 
posite him  the  Maidenhood  roof  showed  its  stripped  rafters, 
while  a  crusade  of  tiles  had  slid  and  been  miraculously 
stopped  on  the  edge  of  the  gutter,  dripping  towards  the  broken 
windows  and  split  weather-boarding  of  the  frontage.  The  rest 
of  the  street  had  a  dead,  barricaded  look — the  citizens  and 
visitors  were  locked  up  inside  their  doors.  Below  him  the 
beast  of  the  crowd  writhed  and  yelled,  shooting  up  queer 
spines  of  arms  among  faces  close-packed  like  scales,  one  here 
and  there  showing  white  and  bloody  in  the  midst  of  the  oth- 
ers, borne  and  jostled  to  and  fro  in  their  mass.  Its  anger 
was  aimed  no  longer  at  the  Maidenhood,  but  at  the  Town 


382  TAMARISK  TOWN 

Hall,  and  the  armed  force  which  had  been  brought  to  with- 
stand it  in  its  lawful  battle  for  its  lusts. 

Monypenny  could  not  speak  for  a  moment.  In  his  ears 
hummed  the  words — "Marlingate  the  great  is  fallen,  is  fallen, 
and  has  become  the  habitation  of  devils,  the  hold  of  every 
foul  spirit,  and  the  cage  of  every  unclean  and  hateful  bird." 
Then  his  mood  changed,  and  he  seemed  to  stand  as  he  had 
stood  once  long  ago,  on  the  steps  of  the  Assembly  Room, 
looking  down  into  the  empty  High  Street,  streamed  over  with 
moonlight  and  gulfed  with  shadows.  Even  beyond  this  up- 
roar the  moon  and  the  darkness  should  every  night  build  the 
High  Street  anew,  and  it  should  lie  cherished  in  the  soft 
night,  unknown  to  all,  save  perhaps  some  lonely,  privileged 
watcher  like  himself.  .  .  . 

He  lifted  up  his  hand,  in  mute  entreaty  for  silence,  and 
began  to  speak.  But  the  shouting  continued  and  his  voice 
was  lost  in  it.  No  one  in  the  Council  Chamber  could  hear  a 
word. 

"Is  he  reading  the  Act?"  asked  Boas. 

"Not  yet— I  don't  think  so,"  said  Robert  Pelham. 

"He's  speaking  to  'em  first,"  said  Lewnes. 

"He's  appealing  to  their  better  feelings,"  whimpered  old 
Pelham. 

"He'll  have  'em  in  a  minute,  see  if  he  don't,"  said  Lewnes; 
"he'll  do  it  with  his  eye." 

"I  wish  he'd  read  the  Act,"  wailed  Lusted.  • 

Crash!  A  large  tile  flung  the  head  of  a  Carolean  Mayor 
in  shivers  on  the  Chamber  floor. 

"Damn  them!"  cried  Boas. 

"I'll  see  if  the  old  chap's  all  right,"  said  Ellam,  and,  greatly 
daring,  he  slipped  out  from  safety  to  the  window. 

"It's  all  right — he's  still  speaking — Now  he's  going  to  read 
the  Act.  By  George!  he's  a  game  old  cock." 

"Those  beasts  ull  get  a  few  bullets  in  them  soon,  let's  hope," 
said  Boas. 


RECONCILIATION  383 

Monypenny  was  reading  the  Riot  Act.  They  could  hear  the 
words,  as  a  sudden,  short  lull  of  curiosity  fell  upon  the  crowd. 

"Our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King  chargeth  and  commandeth 
all  persons  being  assembled  immediately  to  disperse  them- 
selves and  peaceably  to  depart  to  their  habitations  or  to 
their  lawful  business,  upon  the  pains  contained  in  the  act 
made  in  the  first  year  of  King  George  for  preventing  tu- 
multuous and  riotous  assemblies.  God  Save  the  King." 

The  last  words  were  lost,  as  the  crowd  recovered  its  wrath. 
Shouts,  yells,  hisses,  hoots,  groans,  crashes,  breaking  glass  .  .  . 
every  strepitous  and  murderous  noise  of  pandemoniacal  pos- 
session for  a  full  minute  .  .  .  and  then  suddenly,  almost  ex- 
plosively— silence.  The  silence  hung  terrifyingly  for  a  second 
or  two  like  the  stillness  after  an  earthquake,  then  it  seemed 
to  spill  and  scatter  itself  into  a  hundred  little  noises — a  mur- 
mur of  hushed  voices,  a  shuffle  of  feet  in  the  roadway,  a  dull 
pattering  and  hum,  a  synthetical  sound  which  to  the  waiting 
borough  fathers  at  last  assumed  the  surprising  but  unmistake- 
able  character  of  a  crowd  dispersing. 

"They're  going!"  gasped  Lusted. 

"He's  done  it!"  cried  Lewnes — "I  told  you  he  would.  He's 
got  power  in  his  eye.  He  knows  how  to  scare  'em.  He's  a 
man,  I  tell  you.  Oh,  Lord!  the  power  of  his  eye!" 

"Be  quiet!"  cried  Boas — "Listen! — "Yes,  you're  right. 
They're  going.  I'm  sorry  they'll  miss  their  punishment, 
though." 

"Oh,  that  man's  eye!"  chanted  Lewnes  in  rapture,  "the 
power  of  that  man's  eye.  I've  seen  it — seen  it  on  this  Town 
Council,  pulling  the  guts  of  the  obstructionists,  so's  they'd 
show  their  hands  Progressive  though  they'd  talked  'emselves 
'oarse  fur  'all  of  an  hour  before  'and.  Oh,  the  power  of  that 
man's  eye!" 

"We'd  better  go  out  to  him  now,"  said  Ellam — "he's  done 
his  job." 

"Maybe  he'll  be  coming  in." 


384  TAMARISK  TOWN 

"Not  he!— he'll  see  the  street  empty  first." 

They  crowded  in  a  body  to  the  window,  their  boots  crashing 
and  chinking  on  the  broken  glass.  Down  in  the  street  they 
could  see  the  crowd  pouring  towards  the  sea,  quickly,  almost 
silently,  and  strangely  furtive.  The  soldiers,  immediately  be- 
low against  the  wall,  their  rifles  grounded  before  them,  gazed 
after  them  in  mingled  surprise  and  contempt.  Then  the  Town 
Council  looked  out  on  the  porch. 

Monypenny  lay  across  the  parapet,  his  arms  dangling  down 
towards  the  street.  His  cocked  hat  had  fallen  over  one  ear, 
and  from  under  it  a  small  trickle  of  blood  ran  down  to  the 
brighter  scarlet  of  his  Mayoral  robe.  .  .  . 

Boas  and  Ellam  stood  wedged  in  the  doorway,  while  the 
heads  of  the  Council  craned  over  and  round  their  shoulders, 
with  startled  eyes.  There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  then  Ellam 
with  a  curse  sprang  out  on  the  porch,  and  the  others  followed 
— all  except  old  Pelham,  who,  feeling  unable  to  negotiate  the 
step  from  the  window,  stood  where  he  was,  and  cried. 

Lewnes  was  the  first  to  reach  Monypenny,  and  lifted  him  off 
the  parapet. 

"He's  dead!"  cried  Lusted. 

Boas  groped  under  his  clothing  for  his  heart. 

"Take  off  his  chain,"  said  somebody. 

"Give  him  air,"  cried  others,  "let  him  breathe." 

"It's  no  use,"  said  Boas — "he's  gone." 

"Gone!" 

"Yes— his  heart's  quite  still." 

"Oh,  Lord!"  cried  Lewnes— "Oh,  Lord!" 


EPILOGUE 
MONYPENNY  ON  THE  SHORE 

IN  August,  1910,  when  Marlingate  was  at  the  height  of  its 
Summer  season,  Ted  Monypenny  re-visited  the  town.  He  came 
only  for  a  day,  running  down  from  London  where  he  had  left 
his  wife  and  boy  and  girl.  Lindsay  did  not  want,  she  said, 
ever  to  see  Marlingate  again,  but  Ted  had  felt  the  lure  of  curi- 
osity as  well  as  of  courtesy  and  the  bondage  of  old  times 
when  he  was  invited  by  the  Mayor,  Alderman  Ellam,  to  at- 
tend the  ceremonial  unveiling  of  his  father's  statue. 

"Your  visit  to  England  at  this  time,"  wrote  his  worship,  "is 
a  fortunate  coincidence.  We  want  to  make  an  imposing  func- 
tion of  the  unveiling — such  as  will  attract  the  numerous  hol- 
iday-makers in  our  town — and  I  feel  that  your  presence,  as 
son  of  the  great  man,  will  add  much  to  the  dignity  and  inter- 
est of  the  proceedings." 

Ted  had  refused  the  Mayor's  invitation  to  perform  the  cere- 
mony himself,  preferring  that  it  should  be  done  by  Ellam,  as 
had  been  the  original  plan.  But  he  drove  with  the  Aldermen 
and  Councillors  from  the  Town  Hall  to  the  Marine  Parade, 
and  stood  among  them  at  the  foot  of  the  draped  statue,  which 
had  been  erected  at  the  west  end  of  the  Parade,  not  far  from 
the  Marine  Gardens. 

The  Corporation  consisted  mostly  of  men  he  did  not  know. 
He  recognised  Boas,  in  his  clerk's  wig,  but  the  others  were 
strangers.  They  seemed  to  be  drawn  largely  from  the  trad- 
ing class,  though  he  afterwards  heard  that  Councillor  Dwight 
was  a  Baptist  minister.  The  whole  town  wore,  to  him,  an  air 
of  strangeness  as  he  stood  there  on  the  plinth  of  the  tall 

385 


386  rA.Wi.n.SK  TOWN 

statue,  with  the  Summer  sea-wind  racing  over  him.  Surprisingly 
it  had  grown — all  the  front  of  Cuckoo  Hill,  above  the  Marine 
Gardens,  was  ridged  with  pink  rows  of  little  brick  houses,  evi- 
dently new.  The  Parade  itself  looked  squalid — the  big  Victo- 
rian houses  were  in  need  of  paint  and  repair,  their  ground  floors 
had  been  broken  up  into  shops,  and  several  of  them  stood 
empty.  The  Marine  Hotel  bore  no  trace  of  its  old  glory,  but 
was  sliced  into  flats,  several  of  which  were  empty  to  judge  by 
the  blank  and  dirty  windows.  At  the  corner  of  the  Parade  and 
the  High  Street,  what  had  once  been  the  Assembly  Room  was 
now  a  furniture  warehouse. 

The  crowd  that  had  come  to  watch  the  ceremony  reminded 
him  of  the  crowds  he  had  known  in  Marlingate's  latter  days.  It 
was  sun-burnt,  sweaty,  and  good-humoured,  and  apparently 
thought  the  unveiling  of  the  great  Mayor's  statue  most  fitly 
celebrated  by  the  waving  of  paper  streamers  and  the  wearing 
of  false  noses.  It  surged  round  the  platform  where  the  Cor- 
poration stood,  it  chaffed  and  laughed,  and  passed  ribald  re- 
marks on  the  civic  vesture,  it  ate  ice-cream,  its  babies  howled, 
its  young  men  and  women  flirted  noisily  during  the  Mayor's 
speech. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen  ...  a  very  special  occasion  .  .  . 
honour  to  a  great  man  .  .  .  Monypenny  of  Marlingate.  .  .  ." 

The  words  reached  Ted  as  he  stood  dreaming  on  the 
threshold  of  the  past,  of  that  mysterious  old  town  which  he 
had  known  as  a  boy,  whose  secret  ways  he  had  explored, 
whose  glories  he  had  passionately  dreamed.  It  seemed  now 
almost  as  if  that  town  had  never  been,  that  secret,  sweet  old 
town — no  more  than  the  town  of  his  father's  great  days, 
Marlingate  in  its  glory.  Surely  Marlingate  had  always  been 
this  cheap,  third-rate,  rather  soiled  resort — there  had  never 
been  a  time  when  a  boy  had  dreamed  among  the  old  houses, 
or  a  time  when  beauty  and  gentility  and  fashion  had  paced  up 
and  down  that  High  Street  and  Marine  Parade,  and  danced  in 
that  Assembly  Room. 


MONYPENNY  ON  THE  SHORE       387 

"This  is  the  statue  of  the  man  who  made  Marlingate  what 
it  is  ...  the  grateful  townsfolk  who  would  like  to  immor- 
talise his  memory  .  .  .  the  no  less  appreciative  visitors  who 
year  after  year  have  enjoyed  our  salubrious  climate  .  .  . 
yet  I  might  indeed  use  the  words  that  were  used  of  the  great 
architect  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  'If  you  want  a  monument, 
look  round.'  .  .  .  Marlingate  is  the  monument  of  this  great 
and  noble  man,  it  is  his  life's  work,  and  the  work  for  which 
he  gave  his  life.  ...  I  shall  never  forget  that  day  .  .  .  per- 
ished in  the  noble  discharge  of  his  official  duty  .  .  .  Mony- 
penny  of  Marlingate  ...  a  household  word  .  .  .  always 
remembered  with  love  and  respect  by  those  privileged  to 
know  him  .  .  .  my  own  personal  privilege  of  calling  him 
friend.  .  .  ." 

"He  speaks  well,  don't  he?"  an  Alderman  whispered  to  Ted 
behind  his  hat. 

Monypenny  nodded,  though  he  had  heard  only  a  few  scat- 
tered words,  rising  up  like  islands  out  of  the  sea  of  his  own 
half-wistful  thoughts.  The  Mayor  had  finished  his  speech, 
and  proceeded  to  unveil  the  statue.  The  crowd  had  not 
listened  to  him  in  absolute  silence — it  had  shuffled  and  gig- 
gled and  munched — but  now  a  brief,  strained  quiet  hung  over 
it,  as  the  Mayor  lifted  his  hand,  and  the  voluminous  white 
shroud  fell,  and  Monypenny  of  Marlingate  stood  carven  in 
granite  before  the  eyes  of  his  town.  Then  a  loud  cheer  went 
up,  not  quite,  Ted  suspected,  without  a  ring  of  good-hu- 
moured mockery.  What  did  this  mixed  multitude  care  about 
a  dead  and  gone  Mayor? 

A  few  comments  drifted  up  to  the  official  platform — "a 
regular  beauty,  I  don't  think" — "Should  say  he  was  a  Sheeney, 
by  his  nose" — 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  statue — the  work  of  a  midland  art- 
ist— was  not  a  bad  one.  Monypenny  was  represented  more 
than  life  size,  standing  in  his  Mayoral  robes  and  chain,  his 
cocked  hat  in  his  hand,  gazing  out  to  sea.  The  sculptor  had 


388  TAMARISK  TOWN 

been  particularly  successful  with  the  face — its  peculiar,  sat- 
urnine cast,  the  drooping,  idealistic  nose,  the  melancholy 
caverned  eye.  The  mouth  was  grim  and  set  above  the  dispro- 
portionately long  chin,  but  the  carriage  was  courageous  and 
alert,  the  whole  figure  suggesting  a  kind  of  triumphant  expect- 
ancy. Ted  wondered  a  little  why  it  did  not  stand  facing  the 
town,  but  looking  away  from  it,  out  to  sea. 

On  the  plinth  was  carved  in  gilded  letters — "Edward  Mony- 
penny,  1829-1893,  sixteen  times  Mayor  of  Marlingate — the 
builder  of  the  new  town,  and  founder  of  its  prosperity — who 
gave  his  life  in  the  discharge  of  his  official  duties,  September 
1 9th,  1893.  Constans  Fidei." 

One  or  two  Aldermen  made  speeches,  but  the  crowd  had  now 
heard  and  seen  enough  of  Monypenny,  and  began  to  disperse 
to  the  beach  and  the  gardens  and  the  Joy-wheel  on  the  Pier. 
The  speechifying  Aldermen  addressed  mostly  departing  backs, 
and  about  ten  minutes  later  the  Mayoral  procession  reformed, 
and  made  its  way  back  to  the  Town  Hall. 

"Come  in  and  have  a  drop  of  something,"  said  Ellam  to 
Ted  as  the  carriage  rocked  up  the  High  Street,  with  the  shad- 
ows of  the  two  Mace-bearers  cast  into  it  by  the  southward 
sun. 

Monypenny  could  not  refuse,  and  accordingly  soon  found 
himself  upstairs  in  the  Council  Chamber,  which  had  been 
equipped  with  a  new  set  of  stained  glass  windows. 

"Shall  I  ever  forget  that  day?"  said  Ellam,  following  Ted's 
eyes  to  the  re-constructed  Tudor  Mayors — "a  sherry  or  a  whis- 
key, Mr.  Monypenny?" 

"I'll  have  whiskey,  thanks.  There's  only  you  left,  isn't 
there,  of  the  lot  that  was  here  when  it  happened?" 

"Only  me  and  Boas.  Smith  went  up  to  Wigan  in  1906.  The 
others  are  dead,  except  Robert  Pelham,  who's  taken  a  dislike 
to  the  place  ever  since,  and  lives  at  Eastbourne.  They  were 
pretty  old  chaps  at  the  time,  you  know.  Old  Lusted,  he  croaked 
that  very  year.  Old  Lewnes,  he  doddled  on  a  bit,  but  he 


MONYPENNY  ON  THE  SHORE      389 

never  got  over  it — the  riot  and  your  father  being  found  dead 
like  that.  It's  awful  to  think  he  was  lying  there  all  that  time 
when  we  were  in  here  cheering  him  for  the  way  he'd  settled 
those  beasts." 

"It  was  never  found  out  who  struck  him?" 

"No — couldn't  be,  very  well.  It  wasn't  much  of  an  injury, 
you  know — he  died  of  shock  more'n  anything  else.  Dr.  Cooper 
said  he'd  been  treating  him  for  heart  trouble  for  years,  and  of 
course  the  excitement  and  the  worry  and  all  that  .  .  .  but 
it  was  a  glorious  death." 

Ted  did  not  speak.    He  stood  gazing  at  the  Tudor  Mayors. 

"How  are  you  doing  now?"  he  asked  after  a  moment. 

"In  the  town  d'you  mean? — Oh,  nicely,  very  nicely;  you 
saw  what  a  crowd  there  was  this  morning.  Well,  we're  full 
like  that  pretty  well  all  the  Summer." 

"Don't  get  many  people  in  Winter,  I  suppose?" 

"No — we  don't  expect  them.  We  cater  for  quite  another 
class." 

"And  you  find  it  pays?" 

"Oh,  of  course  times  are  difficult  now — you  hear  the  same 
everywhere.  People  are  damned  hard  to  please;  they  want  so 
much  and  they'll  spend  so  little.  Now  suppose  you  toddle 
home  with  me,  and  we'll  ask  the  wife  to  give  us  a  cup  of  tea." 

Ted  excused  himself  desperately.  He  realised  that  he 
wanted  to  spend  the  rest  of  his  time  alone.  He  wanted  to  go 
over  the  town  and  see  how  much  remained  of  the  Marlingate 
he  used  to  know.  It  was  now  eighteen  years  since  he  had  been 
in  England,  and  between  him  and  his  memories  lay  the  new 
streets  of  the  new  town  he  was  building  out  in  the  new  coun- 
try— "New  Marlingate"  he  called  it.  He  would  like  to  go  over 
the  old  place,  and  take  some  fresh  memories  of  it  back  with  him 
— though  probably  those  memories  would  soon  fade  out  in  the 
keen,  shining  air  of  Bennetville,  Cal.,  and  become  dim  and 
ghostly,  like  the  old  ones. 

He  had  tea  at  the    pastry-cook's  at  the  corner  of  High 


390  TAMARISK  TOWN 

Street.  It  was  crowded  with  trippers,  eating  and  talking  good- 
humouredly,  and  keeping  the  little,  touzled  waitress  running 
to  and  fro  on  their  errands.  It  was  a  happy,  cheerful  crowd, 
reckless  over  its  pence,  and  somehow  conveyed  a  factitious  im- 
pression of  prosperity.  The  shop  had  never  been  so  full  in  the 
days  when  Ted  and  Lindsay  had  sought  adventure  in  it,  but 
then  in  those  days  there  had  been  stately  revellers  at  the  Ma- 
rine Hotel,  and  others  more  humble,  but  no  less  substantial 
sitting  down  to  a  good  meal  of  tea  and  bread  and  Robin  Huss 
at  the  Maidenhood  Inn. 

The  Maidenhood  was  now  only  a  common  public-house,  and 
did  not  provide  meals,  except  to  a  few  commercial  gents. 
The  name  of  Tutt  was  no  longer  on  its  sign — the  Tutts  had  mi- 
grated to  Bulverhythe.  Ted's  inspection  of  the  town  revealed 
nothing  that  could  genuinely  be  called  a  hotel.  There  were  a 
couple  of  Boarding  Houses  on  the  Parade,  and  when  he  reached 
the  top  of  the  High  street  he  had  the  shock  of  his  visit. 
Gun  Garden  House  stood,  looking  rather  brown  and  battered, 
by  the  Old  Warriors'  Gate,  and  swinging  out  from  its  porch 
was  a  sign — "The  French  Gun." 

Young  Monypenny  stood  staring  at  the  house  where  he  had 
been  bom  ...  he  was  glad  his  father  had  not  lived  to  see 
this — had  not  lived  to  make  the  material  expiation  of  his  mis- 
taken policy,  or  to  work  out  the  doom  of  his  stricken 
mind.  ...  He  wondered  how  long  the  house  had  been  de- 
graded. A  policeman  was  passing,  and  he  questioned  him. 

"How  long  has  it  been  a  pub?  Oh,  only  a  couple  of  years. 
Prynne  came  here  in  1908,  and  before  that  the  house  had  been 
empty  since  'two  or  'three.  You  see  the  kind  of  people  that 
can  run  a  house  that  size  don't  come  to  Marlingate — regular 
barrack  it  was;  so  were  those  houses  on  the  Parade,  them  that 
are  mostly  flats  and  apartments  now.  The  big-wigs  used  to 
live  in  them  fifty  years  ago,  but  that  kind  don't  come  here  now. 
People  want  small  houses,  and  they're  building  'em  over  by 
Cuckoo  Hill.  This  house  used  to  belong  to  old  Mr.  Mony- 


MONYPENNY  ON  THE  SHORE      391 

penny — the  one  whose  statue  they  unveiled  today,  as  I  daresay 
you  know.  He  was  Mayor  here  on  and  off  about  fifteen  years, 
and  built  the  Parade  and  the  new  town.  But  he  hadn't  enough 
money  left  to  finish,  and  after  his  death  the  estate  was  sold  to 
some  London  contractors.  His  wife  lived  in  Benbow  Road  till 
she  died,  six  or  seven  years  ago,  but  she  couldn't  afford  that 
house.  It  was  sold  to  a  man  called  Painter,  from  Sevenoaks, 
and  a  precious  white  elephant  he  found  it  till  Prynne  took  it 
on  as  a  pub.  They  say  it  used  to  be  an  inn  a  hundred  years 
ago,  before  it  ever  was  a  house.  Oh,  don't  mention  it,  Sir,  very 
pleased,  I'm  sure." 

Monypenny  turned  away  up  the  London  Road.  He  felt  he 
would  like  to  see  New  Marlingate — Becket  Grove,  Pelham 
Square,  Monypenny  Crescent,  and  all  the  rest  of  his  father's 
soaring  and  failing  creation.  The  sight  did  not  relieve  his 
mood.  Figg's  fine  imagination  in  red  brick  and  white  column 
ran  up  into  the  later  atrocities  of  Lusted,  and  both  were  mixed 
up  in  the  rather  lame  experiments  of  the  London  contractor, 
who  seemed  to  have  lost  courage  and  expressed  himself  chiefly 
by  large  weather-stung  boards,  standing  at  waste  corners  and 
advertising  building  plots  on  the  Braybrook  Farm  Estate. 

He  turned  away,  and  going  up  Becket  Grove — in  which  he 
saw  several  Apartment  cards — re-entered  the  old  town  by  way 
of  Fish  Street.  Here  he  was  given  a  certain  comfort.  The 
fishing  quarter  was  in  most  respects  quite  unchanged.  The 
same  red  and  black  houses  sagged  their  tarred  gables  over  the 
narrow  street,  while  the  nets  dried  on  the  slopes  of  All  Hol- 
land Hill,  and  the  fishermen  in  their  tawny  smocks  loitered 
in  the  sunshine  outside  the  New  Moon,  or  mended  their  tackle 
under  the  black  towers  of  the  Stade.  Here  was  an  aspect  of 
Marlingate  that  had  never  changed — that  had  always  been, 
and  probably  always  would  be.  The  town  might  be  the  most 
select  watering  place  in  England  or  a  fifth-rate  resort  of  trip- 
pers, without  making  any  difference  to  the  men  who  cast  their 
nets  in  the  deep  waters  off  Rock-a-Nore. 


392  TAMARISK  TOWN 

He  came  back  into  the  High  Street  through  the  Petty  Pas- 
sage Way.  It  was  now  late  in  the  evening,  and  he  was  going 
home  by  the  seven  o'clock  train.  He  had  meant  to  visit  the 
Coney  Banks,  but  there  would  not  be  time  and  he  must  con- 
tent himself  with  a  look  upwards  at  their  patched  tiers,  vary- 
ing from  the  seventeenth-century  houses  that  still  huddled  at 
the  foot,  through  the  tall,  black,  mine-stoned  creations  of  the 
earlier  Lusted — the  Aldermen  with  their  stomachs  and  cocked 
hats — to  the  latest  projections  of  the  mind  of  Lewnes,  with 
bayed  and  stuccoed  fronts  and  verandah-shades  like  broken 
parasols. 

The  last  pilgrimage  he  had  time  for  was  to  St.  Nicholas 
churchyard.  He  came  first  of  all  to  Becket's  grave,  on  the 
southern  slope;  he  had  seen  the  headstone  before,  many  years 
ago,  but  now  his  father-in-law's  name  had  been  cut  below  Mor- 
gan Becket's,  with  the  text — "In  death  they  are  not  divided." 

Then  he  crossed  to  the  further  side  of  the  churchyard,  where 
Monypenny  lay  with  his  feet  towards  All  Holland  Hill.  A 
plain,  grey  marble  headstone  marked  his  grave,  with  little 
more  than  his  name  upon  it  according  to  instructions  in  his 
will — "Edward  Monypenny,  gent.,  of  Gun  Garden  House  in- 
this  borough."  Fanny  had  been  buried  more  piously,  and  the 
tombstone  at  the  bottom  expressed  opinions  on  which  its  top 
half  was  remarkably  silent.  "Blessed  are  the  dead  which  die 
in  the  Lord.  For  they  rest  from  their  labours  and  their  works 
do  follow  them." 

Ted  stood  for  a  few  moments  by  the  grave,  his  head  bowed, 
his  thoughts  with  the  man  whose  last  act  in  life  had  been  to 
give  him  all  that  he  himself  had  lost.  He  seemed  to  see  his  fa- 
ther in  the  streets  of  a  new  shining  city — 

"Aflame,  more  fine  than  glass 
Of  fair  abbayes  the  boast, 
More  glad  than  wax  of  cost 
Doth  rrake  at  Candlemas 


MONYPENNY  ON  THE  SHORE       393 

The  lifting  of  the  Host.  .  .  . 
There  many  knights  and  dames 
With  new  and  wondrous  names 
Go  singing  down  the  street.  .  .  ." 

He  did  not  linger.  He  had  paid  his  dues  to  the  dead,  and 
now  would  leave  these  quiet  sleepers  to  their  sleep.  Already 
the  evening  shadows  were  creeping  down  Cuckoo  Hill,  swallow- 
ing up  the  churchyard,  and  spreading  twilight  over  town  and 
sea.  The  sun  lingered  only  on  All  Holland  Hill,  and  in  one  last 
gleam  on  the  Marine  Parade,  for  a  moment  transforming  it 
into  the  glowing,  shimmering  walk  of  light,  the  crystalline  won- 
der, of  its  creator's  dream. 

By  the  time  he  was  down  by  the  sea  the  brightness  had 
faded.  Only  the  dusk  was  there,  shifty  with  indistinct  col- 
ours. The  trippers  wandered  to  and  fro,  up  and  down  the  Ma- 
rine Parade,  their  gay  colours  at  once  fused  and  broken  in  the 
dusk  ...  it  seemed  to  Ted  that  they  were  quiet  now  that 
evening  was  come. 

Their  feet  made  a  shuffling,  dragging  noise  on  the  Parade, 
and  here  and  there  a  laugh  went  up,  or  a  muffled  cry,  or  the 
sound  of  a  kiss.  Someone  in  a  lodging  on  the  Marine  Parade 
was  playing  an  old  tune,  a  waltz  of  Waldteufel's — such  as 
might  have  been  danced  long  ago  in  the  Assembly  Room.  .  .  . 
The  lights  of  the  Pier  suddenly  shot  up  out  of  the  amethyst 
twilight  of  the  sea,  and  the  old  tune  was  drowned  in  the  crash 
of  the  Municipal  band,  beginning  one  of  Sousa's  marches.  The 
trippers  broke  their  half-quiet  walk,  and  streamed  towards  the 
Pier  and  the  bandstand.  Soon  the  west  end  of  the  Parade  was 
deserted.  Only  the  great  statue  of  Monypenny  stood  blocked 
against  the  sunset,  staring  with  blind  eyes  out  to  sea. 


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